


This is My Kingdom Come

by shadoedseptmbr



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, FIx It, Minor Character Death, Post-Game, secret companion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:46:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadoedseptmbr/pseuds/shadoedseptmbr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the Landsmeet, Alistair and Melisande Cousland struggle to come to grips with their decisions and end the Blight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dragon Age Big Bang. Warning for non-canon character death and typical violence. Cherith has provided a fanmix, with covers, [here](http://cherith.livejournal.com/830731.html%22)! Thanks so much to my beta, mille libri, though all mistakes are my own. 2/15/13 edited into multiple chapters for ease of reading. Small edits to text.
> 
> We join our story with the Landsmeet already in progress...

“Don’t do this…Meli, please.”

"I have to. Alistair, just trust me. I have to." Melisande glanced at Riordan, pleading wordlessly with him, but he gazed stonily back at her, silent. Bloody Orlesian arse. Zevran and Wynne looked between them. She'd brought them because they knew how to keep their mouths shut and their eyes open. But now, oh Maker, what she wouldn't give for Morrigan or Sten to say something blunt and cutting.

She should just say it. Yell it out so that the older Warden had no choice but to tell the truth. So that Alistair would listen.

Melisande opened her mouth to do just that when a cough from the crowded hall reminded her. The nobles of the Landsmeet stood about, hushed as the drama played out before them. The new king against the Warden.

The words lodged in her throat. Grey Warden secrets.

All Melisande’s life she'd been told that Grey Wardens were due all honor. That their secrets were necessary. Even the journal she'd discovered in Father's desk that long ago afternoon, where he'd speculated about Wardens and archdemons and what death required, even there Bryce Cousland had reemphasized the need to keep his thoughts to himself. And what had she cared? She'd just opened the toughest lock in the keep, bar the treasury. That feat had meant more to a budding rogue than any other secret, at the time.

"Alistair, it's the only way..." There was Riordan, now, too. Could she take the chance? Take the chance that her father had been wrong. Or that Riordan would take the blow? But the older Warden was tired, strength eroded from his months in Howe’s prison. And anyway…what sort of a Warden was he, that he couldn’t break out of an arl’s dungeon? She and Alistair had broken out of Fort Drakon, of all places.

Frozen to the spot, Alistair wanted to beg. But- Meli had made him King and even he knew he couldn't start off begging. Well, any more than he already had. He loved her. Maker, he loved her. And she loved him, he knew it. They had plans. She wouldn't. He'd say it clearly and she'd realize and this would all be a momentary thing and they'd laugh later at how stupid they'd been.

"I...can't. I don't believe it and even if I did...Blast it all, Meli, I will not stand beside that traitor as a brother." He had his sword in hand, the one she’d given to him. It wouldn’t take but a half step and a swing to separate Loghain’s head from his shoulders and end this foolishness. But…what sort of a beginning was that? Was that the sort of king he’d be?

She saw it, when his face changed, the pleading look faded and that jaw of his tightened. The warmth in his eyes gone and replaced with that damned resolute gleam. Maker, please. He'll never let me. He'll die. I can't let him die. Look at him. The betrayal written on his beloved face made her gut writhe.

"Melisande, if you allow this, I will be king. And nothing more."

Steel in his voice and in his spine, now and she wanted nothing more than to throw herself at his feet. But she was a Cousland. And a Warden. If he wouldn't trust her, she would protect her king and doom herself. She inclined her head and closed her eyes. "As you wish,Your Majesty. This is Grey Warden business now." Better he hated her and lived. Ferelden needed him. She needed him. Even if he never forgave her.

Alistair stared at her bright red head, bowed before him. Maker. Why would she do this? Fury pressed in on him. She would put that traitor before him. Damn stubborn nobleborn...why did she never listen? Always her way. Never taking advice, not since he'd said "you lead." Well, no more. She'd made him king and he would not follow her down this path.

Over the buzzing in her ears that threatened to pull her down, Melisande could hear...who? Anora, going on about how this was a perfect solution, since her father might die in the Joining.

Melisande spun around, narrowing her eyes at the woman and snapped out an order, "Stop."

"Excuse me?"

Imperious, back-stabbing...and now spilling secrets she had no right to. Sodding...where was Eamon? Surely the Arl had sense enough to keep this woman away from Alistair? Melisande advanced upon the former queen, with enough menace in her poise to make Anora fall silent.

"I said, stop. His Majesty will make those decisions. You are a widow, not the king's consort , not yet." See, Loghain? This is how you betray your heart and support your king, you sodding bastard.

"But..." Anora glanced between her father, still on his knees, and Alistair, who was eyeing them with distaste showing through his anger before he spoke.

"Until he joins the Grey Wardens, Loghain Mac Tir is still a traitor and a regicide. He and his daughter have no place making decisions for Ferelden." The king growled and his new... subjects seemed to sigh a bit of relief. Authority. Mel...she had been right on that, at least. Give them a hard line and they snap to, just like soldiers.

Melisande drew her Cousland name about her like a mantle and raised her chin, standing before the assembled court. One last time she would play Bryce Cousland's spitfire, the teyrn's daughter, use the lessons she'd learned at her mother's knee and never mind that she wanted to escape into shadow where she belonged. "Ladies and Lords, you have your Theirin king. I suggest Ferelden look to him." She managed not to sob, making her voice ring, instead. "He will ever have you foremost in his thoughts, now."

The entranced crowd indeed turned to Alistair. So...he should probably say something. Blast it all. "Your Warden Commander has united you and will defend you. The Blight will end here and we will rebuild Ferelden." Not a twitch from her. Just that damned cold noble daughter mien, her grey eyes shuttered. How could she... but what did it matter? If he didn't mean enough to her to change her mind, what did it matter, now? "Warden Commander. You and your...fellows are dismissed to make your...arrangements." 

To the Void with her, then. Let her live with her choice.

She paused for just a moment, letting the chill in his voice and the stumble in his words sink into her bones. "Thank you. Your Majesty." Bowing deeply, rising gracefully before she turned to Riordan, who looked a bit put out at having to take second to this girl. "Well? Go get your Maker-forsaken poisoned cup. I'll meet you in the chapel."

She jerked her head and Zevran went to Loghain, who stood in a weary manner and shook himself before preceding her. She didn't pause. She looked neither left nor right. If she stopped to think, she'd stab the bastard through the heart and present his corpse to Alistair in abject submission and beg. But she couldn't do that.

Instead, she walked with her heart shattered and her head proud; out of the throne room that less than a candlemark before they had walked into, shoulder to shoulder.

She walked out. And he let her.

\---000---

Another mark later and it was done. Loghain was a Warden.

She'd stood to the side, a silent witness. When Riordan asked her to recite the words Alistair had spoken at her Joining, Melisande lied, not caring particularly if the older Warden believed her. "I don't remember. I've been struck in the head rather often since, twice that next day actually." As if she could forget, ever forget the way Alistair had spoken the words with honor and reverence for every syllable and sentiment. Riordan had done the speaking, himself, then. Loghain took his cup with only a slight hesitation, passing out and letting the remnants spill across the flagged floor. 

 

He’d live though. He hadn’t choked on the taint, the way Daveth had. Her last chance to return to Alistair’s side slipped away with every breath the former teyrn took.

Waiting for Loghain to wake from his sprawl on the flagged chapel floor, Melisande and Riordan discussed arrangements for the march to Redcliffe. Loghain would be her responsibility after tonight, but for the moment Riordan would take him in at the Wardens’ barracks.

“I could simply stay in my quarters.” Loghain offered upon his recovery, the pallor of his haggard face and bloodshot eyes a testament to the fact that his life had not been easy recently, Melisande noted with dispassion.

“I have no guarantee that you won’t just turn tail and abandon us again, stabbing another Theirin in the back as you depart. You’ll stay where someone can keep an eye on you.” Drawing herself up from the slight slump she’d fallen into, Melisande took her leave. “I will see you in the morning, at the gate.”

“Sister…” Riordan laid his hand on her elbow.

“I had a brother and brothers in arms, ser. You are neither.”

“Cousland, then? Fine, if you like. It is possible your companion will recall his duty. He might yet change his mind.”

“No. He won’t. He knows what he believes and will be bound by it.”

“A Theirin after all, then.” Loghain said softly. Melisande nodded and left the chapel.

Her companions were waiting at Eamon's estate after she walked across the city, counting on the shadows to keep her safe from ruffians. Maker, what she wouldn't give for a sodding pickpocket just now.

Once in the estate, she held to the shadows a moment longer. Hesitant to join her friends, to hear their compassion, their pity. Resolutely, she dropped the illusion and walked to the dining room. Zev and Wynne had, indeed, been telling tales, from the looks on her companions' faces.

Melisande held up her hands, scarred and dusty, but at least not shaking, to stay their reactions. "It's fine. It's better. I can't imagine trying to protect him as a king should be, if he came. You know how he likes to stand forth."

“Melisande..." She braced herself, trying not to visibly recoil at the sadness in Leliana’s voice. Recoil or run into her arms begging comfort. It was on a knife’s blade, her choice.

“No. What were you expecting, Leliana? A glorious battle and then a wedding and a coronation decked in ribbons and flowers? Not likely." Melisande laughed, but it sounded hollow even to her. That was exactly what they'd expected. "It would have made a lovely song, though, I'm sure."

"But he...he proposed. You said yes." Even with all Leliana had been through, it seemed her bard was yet a romantic.

Melisande leveled cool grey eyes at her and Leliana recalled the first time they'd met. How distant and unfriendly the noblewoman had seemed then, how it had been Alistair who'd charmed Melisande into allowing the lay sister to accompany them. "And then I betrayed him and stayed his blade and his righteous vengeance by saving the life of his worst enemy. He begged me not to and I did it anyway. I'd do it again."

Wynne spoke now. "But Melisande, why? After everything Loghain has done..."

Cool, shuttered eyes switched to the mage. "Because it was necessary. He’ll die, otherwise.” Wynne seemed shocked, no wonder. Melisande explained, accepting that her companions weren’t the people to keep secrets from. They knew of the nightmares, of the reason why Wardens were immune to the taint. Why not this, too? 

“Wardens die when they kill archdemons, I…I don’t know how or why, exactly. But, I’m sure of it. He doesn’t believe me and Riordan won’t tell him. I won’t let him die and you know…Sodding Void, you know he’d never let me take the final blow.” 

From her corner of the room, Morrigan gave a dissatisfied hmph.

"Maker, Morrigan. You've been grumbling at me for months over the foolishness we've been deluding ourselves with. Not you, too? It's fine." The witch made a motion like she had something to say but then she closed her mouth and shook her dark head, eyes narrow and sharp. Melisande pushed off the door where she'd been leaning very casually. "We need to leave at first light for Redcliffe to meet the gathering troops. Get some sleep."

Sten, at least, simply nodded. "Sensible advice, kadan." Good old Sten. Oghren grumbled something about bootlicking giants.

Evading Zevran's hand, she stalked away, Finbar at her heels. Trotting up the stairs, eyes carefully forward, spine straight, Melisande reflexively turned towards Alistair's room at the top of the landing and almost turned the knob before snatching her hand away. Not there any longer was he? She clenched her jaw and breathed deeply, and the elvhen servant at the other end of the hall caught her eye.

"You...Fiona, was it?" The girl bobbed in acknowledgment. "Pack it all up and send King Alistair's gear to the palace. I imagine there are things he'll be needing." She'd turned away before, Void. "Please."

"Yes, m'lady."

Melisande bit out, "Warden."

The elf swallowed and spoke hesitantly, eyes cast down as she curtsied again. "Yes, Warden."

Sod. "I apologize. I've had a trying day. Thank you."

Fiona blinked huge green eyes and nodded, rather mystified at the apology. "Of course, Warden." Melisande nodded back and turned on her heel to her own room. There was a fire blazing in the grate and a plate of sausage and cheese and apples on the small table next to a carafe. Finbar sniffed and hesitated at the door. Ah. Food. Right .

She stuck her head out of the door. "Hey, if I send Fin down to the kitchen can you fix him up with a snack?"

The elf nodded, eyeing the mabari warily. "He likes chicken? The cook had several ready for the morrow."

"That'll be perfect. Thanks." Melisande pushed at his solid, tawny haunch with her foot. "Go on then." Finbar loped back down the passage to follow the girl.

Watching them, Melisande stood a moment before she turned inside. A copper hip bath was steaming in the corner. A bath. Right. Better do that . Who knew when she'd get another chance? She sat down and started to unbind her hair, working her fingers into the tight braided coronet that kept the long thick red locks well out of her way during fights. With every tug of her fingers though...Oh, Maker...make it stop. The sob she'd been swallowing for hours clogged her throat and her eyes burned. She could feel Alistair's hands, his long blunt fingers tightening in the strands. Heard him whispering in that low, husky tone telling her how beautiful...how he loved...

This morning. Just hours ago, Melisande had woken, unable to move, pressed against his long, solid warmth and he'd held a length of her hair wrapped in his fist like a security blanket...and then, he’d taken the comb and… Enough.

Dropping the comb, she yanked her belt knife out of its sheath and started hacking, handfuls falling fine and red-gold about her feet. Quickly, she gathered it up and cast it into the fire, watching it catch and blaze and writhe like living flame before it withered and shriveled into black dust. The room filled with the stench of burning hair but Melisande ignored it, standing, staring blankly into the fire. Grief. Oh, yes, the women of Highever were right. Grief required this. And more.

The water in the bath cooled. The logs dwindled into broken coals.

Finbar came back, Fiona discreetly opening and closing the door without entering the room. He cocked his head at the lingering odor and observed his mistress' still form. Nudging, the mabari wedged his broad head under her fingers and whined. Melisande dropped to her knees beside him, buried her face in his brindled coat and wept, silently, her whole body shaking as her hound leaned into her, giving her ear an occasional soothing lick.

"I had to. Fin, I had to. It's always us. He'll never..." The night fell away as she whispered to the one creature she knew would never judge her poorly for her weakness.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Melisande trudged down the stairs, straightening her back before she entered the hall and joined her companions for breakfast.  She was counting on Grey Warden stamina to hold her up, since she'd never fallen asleep. Borrowing an Antivan  _bella donna_  trick from her sister-in-law, she’d dropped a couple of drops of spindleweed solution into her eyes, to cover the red puffiness.  Spindleweed for sorrow, Oriana had said.

 

They were shocked into silence at her appearance, none the less. Zevran might have whispered a curse. He'd told her once that hair like hers would fetch a king's ransom on the slave or whore market. So what price a king's life?

 

She raised an eyebrow and gave what was very likely the weakest smile she’d ever attempted. "Long hair is impractical. Always has been."

 

Sitting down, she tried to eat, ignoring them until they went back to their meals.  _Have  to eat_. The bread, good and soft and lightly sweet with honey lodged in her throat (and he and she had eaten loaves of it...toasted and spread with butter sitting before the fire after returning from Drakon and laughing at how the guard had stared at them when he'd seen them wrapped around each other... _stop_ ) and the porridge tasted like salt but she choked it down, anyway.  She sipped at her tea as the others finished and then, when even Oghren had swiped the last of the gravy from his bowl, stood.  “Come on, let’s just go.”

 

The gates out of Denerim were clogged with refugees streaming up from the south and west.  Melisande had her well worn map, scavenged from the library at Highever, out, trying to conjure an easier way to Redcliffe when Riordan and Loghain joined them.  She noticed that Wynne shifted away from Loghain, the elder mage taking care to place both Shale and Zevran between her and the newest member of their group. 

 

Sighing, Melisande motioned for the teyrn to stand beside her.  “Do you know of a route that isn’t marked?  Otherwise, we’re going to be fighting the flow of bodies and broken down carts the whole way to Redcliffe.” 

 

After he brushed gloved fingers against the nearly invisible Cousland crest impressed into the scraped vellum, Loghain traced first one way and then another, before shaking his head.  “Not without taking us a league out of our way, no.  The main ways are as such for a reason.  Easiest terrain, nearest sources of water.”

 

Resigned, Melisande nodded.  “Right.  We travel off the road though, run it parallel.  The less attention drawn to us, the better.” 

 

Riordan raised his brows at that.  “You are no longer hunted, my friend.  What keeps you from walking proudly as Wardens?  For that matter, it would have been right for you to claim gear from the Warden stock.  There was proper armor and insignia kept here, once.”  It rubbed against his sense of propriety to hide as a Warden.

 

“You mean besides plain sense?  If we travel on the southern side of the road, any forward darkspawn will be drawn to us.  Maybe we can run interference for the refugees.”  It had been Alistair’s suggestion when they talked about it…before.  Melisande regarded the senior Warden, coolly.  “And I wear what I have earned.”

 

Raising his hands in a conciliatory manner, Riordan shrugged.   “Ah.  Of course.  I will not be joining your troop, though.  I have to take a different route, for a bit of reconnaissance.” 

 

“You’ll divide our force, now?”  Loghain raised the question and Melisande had to swallow an urge to echo it.

 

“I have duties to the First Warden, to make a full report.  I must see for myself.”  He added, when Melisande tried to offer her own experience.  “Do not worry.  I have no intention of confronting the enemy on my own.  I only intend to observe.  I will meet you at Redcliffe in…” considering the map, he shrugged, “Hrm.  Three days. Fare you well, sister.  Brother.”  The Orlesian bowed swiftly to them both and disappeared into the seething crowd.

 

“He is a fascinating fellow, your Riordan.”  Zevran commented dryly from her left. 

 

“He isn’t my anything, Zev.  Come on then.  We apparently are expected to whittle a week’s journey by three days.  Everyone stocked up?  Morrigan?  Do we need to be looking for ingredients along the way?”

 

“I have what I need.”  The witch assured her.

 

“Alright.”  Melisande glanced over her shoulder, to ask Alistair if he needed new socks.  She’d meant to have some made and then…Oh. 

 

“Let us go, yes?  It will be interesting to see how the road has changed, with so many travelers.”  Touching her elbow lightly, Leliana gave her a sympathetic smile and Melisande did her best to return it, nudging Finbar with her foot to prod him up.  With a ‘ _wuff_  ’, the mabari took point They weren’t half a day down the road before an outlying band of darkspawn found them.  Loghain was startled to find himself impressed with the orderly manner in which the companions set into the fray. 

It seemed, too, that the young Cousland was quite the wicked little fighter.  Her technique was interesting.  She fought silently as a spirit with the look of a battle-tested soldier.  And so she was.  Loghain himself had helped make her so, in this last year. 

As the companions took up their positions, she’d called to him.  “Fill in where you’re needed;  the mages will need protection.  Sten, you’re with me.”  The qunari had given the Warden a sharp look but had only nodded and taken up a defensive position at her side.

He lost sight of Cousland as the battle separated them.  The mages and the bard had scattered to the high ground and were picking off genlocks.  Finding himself locked in combat with a tall Hurlock, Loghain was forced to abandon his observation. 

Melisande had launched herself into battle with a fierce burst of energy.  Finally, a chance to relieve some of her emotion, the pent-up stress.   With Sten as her bulwark and Finbar charging, she spun and dodged, the lighter injuries she inflicted on the creatures laying them open to other attacks. 

They were almost clear when she heard Wynne cry out.  Sten was usually the older mage’s protection, but Melisande had been reluctant to take Loghain into the heart of the fight.  Turning to check on the mage, she missed that the genlock she’d just hamstrung hadn’t been quite dead from the poisoned dagger to his throat.  His broken blade cut into a thin place in her leathers, just under her ribs, and she twisted with a swallowed gasp, falling to a knee.  Finbar charged back to her side.

“Kadan!”  Sten finished off the slavering monster with a heavy boot to the jaw, breaking its neck.

She waved him off.  “Fine, I’m fine.  Go get Wynne.”  Reluctantly, Sten obeyed and Melisande bit the cork out of a bottle of healing potion, spilling it over the gash.  As she moved her hand, blood spilled out between her fingers.  The jagged metal had bitten deeply, pain lancing through her gut.  She’d have been in trouble without the elfroot potion that Morrigan and Wynne kept them supplied with. 

Glancing down, she saw that the wound was only partially closed.  Frowning, she poured out another measure and felt the searing ache recede.   The wound scabbed over but still didn’t heal instantly.  Either the potion was weak or the blade had been poisoned.

“Our beloved enchanter has taken a fearful tumble, I’m afraid,”  Zevran said behind her and Melisande tugged the leathers straight, hiding the injury.  “She will need to camp tonight and recover.”

Nodding, Melisande took his hand and managed to stand without wincing.  “Take me to her!”

Wynne was propped against one of the chestnut trees that lined this part of the road, while Morrigan tended to a nasty bruise on the other woman’s temple.  Her arm, held gingerly against her chest, was clearly broken.  She looked pale and very old and it wrung at Melisande’s heart.  Too often they’d relied on Wynne to keep them patched up and it was starting to tell on the mage.  Melisande had a stronger batch of healing draught in her pack.  Hopefully it would be enough to get her own wound healed up, since Morrigan’s own limited skill was clearly going to be needed for Wynne. 

Turning, she saw Loghain cleaning his blade.  “Were you not told to watch…”

Wynne interrupted her. “I just stepped wrong, and fell off a rock, Warden.  Do not blame him for this clumsy old woman’s fault.”

“Will she be all right?”  Melisande asked Morrigan, who was now concentrating on the arm.

Finishing her task, Morrigan sighed.  “Soon enough, I suppose.  Age will not hasten her recovery but I will do what I can.” 

Chuckling, Wynne jibed, “I’m so glad for your bedside manner.  No matter how blunt I am, you will always outdo me.”  Relieved from her pain, she turned a sharp eye on Melisande.  “Are you well, Melisande?”

“Fine.  I took a hit but I’ve taken care of it already.”  She showed Wynne the empty flask and it seemed to satisfy her.  “Don’t worry about me.  We’ll just set up camp and you can have a bit of a rest.”

“Not on my account, dear.  We need to keep moving if we’re to make it to Redcliffe by the time you intend.  Morrigan did quite well.”  And since Wynne’s color was restored and she stood almost gracefully, Melisande decided to accept the assurance.  They did need to keep moving.

They marched a couple of hours before Melisande called a brief halt.  Taking the excuse of relieving herself, she examined her stomach.  The wound had broken open again and was festering.  Grimacing, Melisande poured the stronger potion over it.  This time, she was pleased to see it closed over and the throbbing pain ebbed away, but the skin was thin and red.  It itched and fitfully, she rubbed it.  Finbar, bored with waiting, came to check on her and nudged the spot with a whine.

She scratched his ears.  “I’m okay.  See.  All healed up.”  But he didn’t seem to agree with her and nudged her stomach again with his big head.  “I know.  They don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

With a low growl, the mabari seemed to agree and they went back to the group.

  

\---000---

 

It was their second night just off the road to Redcliffe and Loghain was staring into the fire when Melisande came to take her watch. 

 

He’d been pleasantly surprised.  Most of what had come from being a Warden had been a joy.   He had been quietly reveling in the return of his youthful vigor.  The march hadn’t worn on him as he had expected.  Loghain kept waiting for the catch, outside of the fact that Melisande Cousland generally chose to ignore his existence, other than to set orders.  It was a new experience  _taking_  orders.  Hadn’t happened since he was a boy at his father’s side so many years ago.  But he’d been made aware, that she was the one they would follow.  They were _her_ companions, though all but the old enchanter was easy enough in Loghain’s company.  He had yet to exchange a word with Wynne.  Zevran had explained in a way, simply saying that she had been at Ostagar. 

 

His honor had been the cost Loghain paid and paid gladly, in the end.  All to save Ferelden.  But it seemed that those of his new fellows who considered themselves Fereldan, did not see that the same way.  It was something of a wonder that the Cousland girl had chosen to spare him, considering.  He had yet to discover why.

 

Then the dreams…nightmares…had found him.  Loghain had suffered a long night with the first of his Warden nightmares and found himself dreading the next as his watch ended and she arrived to take his place.

 

He watched her for a minute, slim and upright as the blades on her shoulder, as she stirred the fire and shifted the cast iron tea kettle to a cooler spot.  She looked a great deal like Eleanor Cousland, now that he had a chance to observe her.  Same delicate face, straight little nose, broad brow.  Same bright, piercing silver- grey eyes.   “Are the nightmares...do they continue?”

 

She arched her eyebrow.  "Yes." 

 He caught her elbow as she turned to walk away and she looked at his fingers as though they were a particularly vile sort of blighted spider.  Melisande didn’t give him the satisfaction of feeling her jerk away, though.  Not to mention, too sudden a movement might have her gasping in pain, but she wasn’t about to reveal that either.

 

“Do you mean to tell me nothing of what I am now?”

 

“You mean dear Riordan didn’t give you the Grand Tour?  Surprising.”

 

The teyrn dropped his hand, frustrated with her sarcasm.  “He claimed that such things are better revealed gradually.  To allow acclimation.”

 

“I see.”

 

Melisande turned to him, a cruel little smile playing on her lips.  "Yes.  The nightmares will continue.  They will eat at your sanity.  And they seem to be getting worse the closer to the horde we get.  That's fun. I’m told they go away, eventually.  When there isn’t an Archdemon to feed them.  When you aren’t fighting nightmares or the darkspawn or...well, no, I suppose now we won't be fighting our own people now, so that's nice.  But when you aren't fighting, you'll be starving, willing to eat your bootleather if you can't find anything else.  That evens out though, six months or so.  Still hungry, just not as urgent.”

 

“I can...”

 

“You won't live that long.”  Loghain glared at Melisande, her expression cool and bland as if she'd just told him he might need to sharpen his blade.  “Those of us who took the Joining young will die before we see our old age.  The taint catches up, eventually.  You become a ghoul or you do your best to die in battle.  At your age, you won’t be bothered by that, I imagine.”

 

“Don't you have the nightmares?” His question was almost bitter.

 

Melisande raised her eyebrow, surprised.  Well, she hadn’t slept much the last night either. 

 

“I don't have to be asleep to have nightmares.”  And, too, she’d continued to use Oriana's Antivan bella donna trick to hide her red puffed eyes and thanked her good-sister for it. 

 

Wynne had tried sleep draughts in early days, for Melisande and Alistair, but they stopped taking them once they realized all that happened was that they were trapped in the Fade, unable to wake until the potion burned off.  Bone stripped exhaustion was the only help until they'd discovered that sex worked.  _Oh, maybe she should_ …her smile turned nasty.

 

“Don’t bother with potions.  They’ll make it worse.  Sex works pretty well, though. Nice and rough.  Preferably with your victims strewn about your feet.”  Melisande ignored the bile that crawled up her throat, referring to their lov…to their  _encounters_ …so crudely.

 

“Melisande!”  Wynne’s shocked reprimand rang through the camp over Zevran’s chuckle from his bedroll, and Loghain noticed that the Enchanter, at least, could halt the Warden’s acidic attack.  He caught just a hint of shame in the downcast eyes before she focused on him to speak again.

 

Cousland spread her hands as if she’d laid a feast at his feet.  “There.  Now you know everything I know about being a Warden.  Enjoy it, so long as it lasts.”

 

Loghain looked like he’d swallowed his tongue.  Now her smile had teeth and it was a brittle laugh that trailed her as she walked off towards an outcropping of rock to set up for her watch. 

 

\---000---

               

Blighted wolves ran into their march the next day, maddened and slavering.  It was only a matter of a few of Leliana’s well-placed arrows and several spells to put the damaged creatures down.  Those with blades slit the throats of the wounded wolves before Morrigan could set the carcasses alight. 

 

 When they camped, a little ways from the field, to clean up, rest, and eat before marching on Wynne noticed Melisande stretching gingerly.  “Do you need healing, dear?”

 

“No, thank you, Wynne.”  The enchanter frowned.  The answer had been distant and polite, as Melisande had been at first after the Circle and ever since they had left Denerim.  It was beginning to strain the friendships that had developed among the group.  Wynne was surprised, in all honesty, to realize how much Alistair had softened Melisande’s general attitude, how much of a buffer the good natured young man had been.  The two Wardens had already been quite close by the time Wynne had joined the companions.  Wynne rather thought it was a certain sort of shyness being complicated by the unmistakable grief that was causing Melisande to distance herself from her companions.  None the less, it could not be allowed to continue.

 

“There’s no reason for you to suffer, Melisande.”

 

“I’m just a bit stiff from our forced march.  No need to worry.”  The Warden sent Wynne one of her ever rarer smiles and Wynne allowed herself to be mollified.

 

“I’ll put a bit of this valerian into your tea, then.  It’s good for muscle spasm.” 

 

“Ever so good to us, thank you.”  Melisande stood quietly until the tea had brewed and then took it, breathing in the steam before taking a delicate sip from the earthenware mug.  “Even tastes good.” 

 

“Well, that’s the ginger.”   And the elfroot that she’d added as well.  She hadn’t been a healer so long without learning what an injured person looked like, no matter how well Melisande dissembled.  Wynne regarded the young woman as she sipped her tea.  “This seems a defendable site.  Can we camp here for the night?”

 

Concern brought Melisande’s head up from where she was contemplating the swirling bits of tea leaf in the pale green brew.  “Are you feeling alright?  We certainly can stop, if you’d like.”

 

Shrewdly, Wynne decided to play upon Melisande’s tendency to coddle.  “Well, I wasn’t going to say anything.   I can certainly keep up if we need to…”

 

“No, no.  We can stop for the night.  We’ve made good enough time in the last day.”  Swinging around, she called out,  “Bodahn, let’s pull out the tents.  We could use a decent night’s sleep!”

 

“As you like, Warden!” 

“Bloody Stones, I thought we were just gonna march the whole sodding way in three days.”  Oghren dropped on the spot, where he’d been leaning against a tree, prying rocks out of the soles of his boots. 

 

It was with a bit of relief that the rest of them set up full camp, even Shale had lumbered to a satisfyingly shady spot.  Wynne considered it a good job done.

 

The valerian did, indeed, relax Melisande and, combined with another dose of healing potion, it allowed her to sleep.  But it was a fitful rest and full of dreams of the Archdemon.   Zevran and Leliana slipped into her tent after they turned the watch over to Sten and Shale. They found her curled up with her arms wrapped around her legs, staring at the brazier while Finbar huddled at her feet.  Melisande didn’t bother to turn her head towards them when they entered, silent as cats.  “Go on to sleep, you two.  We should break camp after the next watch.”

Leliana sighed as she knelt beside her, gingerly, on the tumbled blankets, musty with fear and old sweat. "Oh, my friend, just let us stay."

 _Holy Beloved, make them go away._   "I don't _want_ you here.  I'm fine."

"We are your backup, where else should we be?"  Zevran sat behind her and drew her back against his narrow, whipcord frame. Exhausted, Melisande allowed it.  Just a minute.  Just a few minutes of comfort.  Even Warden stamina couldn’t hold out forever and, Maker, she was so bloody tired.

 

Leliana sat next to her and gently grasped her sword hand, rubbing the stiffness out of Melisande’s scarred fingers. Seeing the toothmarks where Melisande had bitten her hand in an unconscious effort not to scream, the bard tsked and pulled a tin of ointment out of her pouch and dolloped on a small amount of the elfroot salve they all carried. The marks faded under her ministrations.

 

Lulled by the soothing, Melisande opened her mouth.  She should thank them.  She’d been such a bitch and…but what tumbled out was less than an apology and more a plea.

 

"I’m sorry.  I was wrong to… Should I have...I was sure it was right to bring Loghain in....but Ali… _he_  was right, wasn't he? Doesn't matter if I was right first.  He won't ever forgive me.  And I should have…there were other ways to save him.  I could have made him stay behind, drugged him.  I could have…We're meant to die, but I could have made sure it was me."  Babbling, half incoherent, and huddled into Zevran’s shoulder, Melisande missed the dark look Zevran and Leliana shared.

 

Crooning, Zevran consoled her.  "He will, inamorata. We will persuade him. Who could resist the three of us, lovely as we are?" He stroked her cropped hair, sweated from the nightmare, rough and uncombed, Leliana hummed something low and gentle and eventually, Melisande slumped against him, asleep again.

 

Under her tunic, Zevran could feel the bandaging Melisande hadn’t had the energy to change.  Frowning he asked, “Did Melisande injure herself during the fight today?”

 

“I don’t think so.  She was well enough afterwards.  I think Wynne gave her something for muscle stiffness.  Why?”

 

“She has a wrap on her ribs.”  Deftly, he loosened Melisande’s…ah, no Alistair’s tunic from where it had wrapped around her.  He’d thought it was too large…and pulled up the cloth to reveal her lean waist.  There were fading bruises on her pale freckled skin and her ribs were showing.  He took a small blade from a frowning Leliana and cut the bandage carefully away, only to suck in a startled breath.

 

An angry but healing gash snaked across the bared skin.  It had been infected from the looks of it, puckering and the skin flaking, though it looked to be almost healed now.  Her Warden’s constitution or had she finally physicked it?  Why in the name of Andraste…ah, but he recalled now.  Wynne had been injured herself, after that last fight with darkspawn.  Melisande might well have just tried to patch herself up.  And without Alistair to check on her…foolish, stubborn woman. 

“I’ll get Wynne.”  Leliana stood gracefully and Zevran couldn’t resist watching her elegant withdrawal, even as he tucked the blanket back around the exhausted Melisande. 

Wynne managed to heal the Warden without too much of a fuss.  She could scold the girl just as easily when she was awake and Maker knew that Melisande needed some sleep.  They’d just finished when the Warden stiffened and reached for knife she kept strapped to her thigh.  Zevran was very still looking into her icy grey eyes, narrow and suspicious, but he spoke in his normal, suggestive manner.

“Warden, perhaps we could save this sort of play until after we have saved Ferelden?  Just in case you are too enthusiastic in your role?  How will you ever defeat the Archdemon without me to distract it with my beauty?”

“Zevran?  Why are you all in my tent?”  Blinking sand out of her eyes, Melisande pulled the blade away and looked around, vague and bewildered.

 

Wynne answered her, caustically.  “We were attending to the wound you’ve been neglecting.  Honestly, Melisande.  It’s no bother for me to heal you if you require it.”

“You had your own injury to deal with.  I had it under control.  It was healing.”

“Yes, that’s true.  But it will scar now and I could have…”

With a small huff, Melisande answered, “It doesn’t matter, Wynne.  I’m not so vain that I can’t stand a scar or two.  It’s not the first.”

“Ah, well.  It will not affect your loveliness, true.  Some lovers like the stories such marks tell.”  Zevran kissed her fingers and stood.  “I will return to my own bed then, Warden.  Pleasant…hmm.  Well, sleep well, inamorata.” 

With a final chiding look, Wynne pressed another mug of tea into Melisande’s hand and withdrew as well.

Finbar curled at her feet, nudging her newly healed side with a decidedly approving _gruff_.

 

“Yes, I know.  I’ll be good from now on.”  She’d be doing them no favors if she allowed herself to become ineffective.  There was a duty still and she would not fail in it. 

And then? 

Well.  What happened in battle could never be determined until the final blow fell.

 But she couldn’t sleep again and only managed a couple of sips of tea before the dawning caught them


	3. Chapter 3

The King of Ferelden was sleeping poorly. 

               

_They were at the Dead Trenches again.  The horde spilled through the vast canyon that opened at their feet, Melisande looking up at him in horror as the immense number of darkspawn made themselves known.  Lurid flames danced, turning horrifying creatures into nightmares._

 

_Then the dragon, the Archdemon, screaming, whispering.  It had spoken to them.  To the darkspawn, not him.  Why would the Maker forsaken thing speak to him?  Too soon for that._

 

_But it was… she doesn’t love you never loved you only used you only wanted to put you on the throne and abandon you left you the first chance she got just like everyone else._

 

_And he looked at Melisande, to clear his head.  She hadn’t left him, she was right here.  Always.  He stood at her shoulder as he always would._

 

_Puzzled at the hair spilling down her back.  Why was her hair down?  She never took it down.  The whole time they were in the Deep Roads, it had stayed braided up and tight, safely out of the way of the grasping fingers of darkspawn.  But it was down now, the redgold wave of it, pouring like blood._

 

 _No.  It_   ** _was_**   _blood.  Gushing out over her hands and the sword in his hand, Maric’s sword, but she hadn’t given that to him yet, not until Redcliffe when they’d talked about making him king, but the blade was sticky and crimson, steady in his hand._

 

_And she was staring at him, hurt and lost and terrified, gray eyes wide, begging him not to leave her to believe her as he pushed her off his sword with his boot over the edge into the waiting gaping smiling maw of the Archdemon who swallowed her whole._

 

Alistair woke up shouting, the fine wool blanket wrapped around his body and the dark trying to suffocate him.  Gasping, he tried to catch his breath, still tasting the fetid air of the Trenches and the bitter surge of adrenaline.

 

Guards banged on his door.  “Your Majesty!  Are you all right?”

 

Was he?  Maker, he didn’t know any more.  He’d had the nightmares.  And yes, they’d gotten worse since they’d seen the Archdemon and known it to be real.  His had never been as bad as Melisande’s, Joined in a Blight.  Alistair had figured out the knack of smoothing them out before the Archdemon had risen.  But he’d never…he didn’t think this one was just a Warden dream.  Hunched over his knees a clutching his hair in his hands he tried to calm himself, draw a center.  His gorge rose as he closed his eyes and the feeling of bitter satisfaction surged back from the nightmare. 

 

The door slammed open.  He hadn’t responded and the guard took no chance, slamming into the room, sword drawn.  “King Alistair!  Sire, are you…”

“Fine.  I’m fine.  It was just a damned nightmare, guardsman…”  He couldn’t tell the man’s face behind his visor.  “Sorry, I…what’s your name?”

 

“Terrance, sire.  Are you sure you’re…”

 

The man stared at his king, who was rubbing his hands over his face.  King Alistair looked fine, a bit pale, maybe under his tan.  And, Maker, the king bore a lot of scars, the muscular torso criss-crossed with lines in varying stages of healing, some still red and tight looking, like they were very recent.  The new King of Ferelden was no stranger to battle.  Terrance caught sight of curious hazel eyes and blushed to be caught staring, glad of the faceguard that hid his flush.

 

“It’s alright, Terrance.  I…did they not warn you, the other guardsmen?  I don’t sleep well.”  He hadn’t since she’d left him, anyway.   “It’s alright, man.  Go back to your post.  I’m fine.”  No.  No he wasn’t. 

 

Every time he turned around he was looking for Melisande.  If someone asked his opinion, he glanced up to see what she thought.  A year of marching at her hip had taught him though, that she would make him answer.  So he did.  So far it had been enough.  Once or twice, he’d even caught Eamon looking at him with something like approval.  And where had that been, ten years ago?

 

The guard withdrew, with a quick bow and Alistair tried to relax enough to sleep again.  As soon as he shut his eyes again though, the image of Melisande, hurt and betrayed, flared again in his mind.  Blast it all…it was he who had been betrayed.  They’d talked it out a hundred times if they’d done it once.  Loghain was a traitor.  No matter what Cailan had intended with the Empress, none of that could excuse the teyrn’s behavior in the civil war that resulted with the Bannorn.  Nor Eamon’s poisoning.  Nor the selling of Ferelden’s elves to Tevinter. 

 

Rolling over to his side, Alistair tugged the over-stuffed pillow across his face.  How was it, after a year of sleeping on the ground, in the damp, in tents that had been mended and re-mended and that had long since lost what water-proofing they’d ever had, he’d slept better than he did on this stuffed mattress and feather bed?

 

Easy, whispered his conscience.  She was next to you, smelling comfortingly of sweat and leather and knife oil.  That leafy scented rinse Morrigan made for her hair.  The way her skin could still hold a faint fragrance of clove, even in the Deep Roads when no one had smelled good…including her, but it was still there, underneath the filth. 

 

 _Andraste’s chaste bosom._    This was  _useless._

 

He flung the blanket back and got up and dressed, resigned to finding something…anything that would distract him. 

 

He reached for his armor, picked up the vambrace and stopped.  He had a brand new suit of armor hanging on the rack.  Shining.  Prettied up, here and there with gilt.  No dents to be hammered out.  Not a scratch to spend an easy hour by the fire polishing out.  The armor of the Warden Commander that Meli had given him was…where?  He’d yanked it off days ago, casting it aside in his pique and someone had tidied it away.

 

There had been some talk of retrofitting some of Cailan’s armor to fit him.  Hopefully, that had been nipped in the bud.  Bad enough he was using the damned sword that belong to their father.   And he had yet to pick up Duncan’s shield since that afternoon in the throne room.  “I will not serve beside him.”  Never mind what he’d sworn, to Duncan.  To her.  And since, Alistair had been borrowing from whatever guard or soldier watching him spar or practice. 

 

Melisande had Cailan’s shield too, had brought it from Ostagar and he’d been informed that it was delivered when his own things had arrived.  He’d banished it to the armory, with Cailan’s shining armor. 

 

Alistair dropped the vambrace back onto the rack.  There was no reason to wear this.  He ended up just grabbing one of the simple linen tunics he’d scavenged out of the packs that had arrived just after they left and pulling on the soft elkskin boots someone had left by his bedside.  Kings, he supposed, weren’t meant to go gadding about their palaces in stocking feet.   He looked at his long feet.  At least this pair of socks didn’t have holes.

 

The boots fit.  As far as Alistair knew, he’d never been measured for them.  He and Melisande had spent three hours in the bootmaker the first time they were in Denerim, trying to fit him in ready-mades. But here these were.  The life of a king. 

 

There was a guardsman, Terrance again, he thought, following at a discreet distance behind him as Alistiar trod the halls.  What sort of trouble he was supposed to be getting into Alistair wasn’t sure. But, he at least had some guard against getting lost.

 

Alistair found himself, half a candlemark later, in the working rooms of the palace.  He’d followed his nose to the kitchens, only to find a flustered scullery maid and her beau doing something rather unsanitary on the butcher’s block. 

 

He grabbed one of the loaves to munch while he explored.  “Terrance?  Do you want anything?”

 

Startled, the man stammered.  “Uh.  Um.  No.  No, sire.”

 

“Alright, then.”  He gave the erstwhile couple what might have passed for a jaunty wave had he been smiling.  “Carry on, I suppose.”  Not going to be eating anything butchered here, for a while.

 

Turning down a long, narrow corridor, he found himself in a wide open space, lined with arched nooks.  He stopped to brush crumbs from his chest.  “What’s this, then, Terrance?” 

 

“Storage, your majesty.”

 

Alistair wasn’t sure what caught his eye.  Something gleamed, though, in the flare of torch that Terrance had lit when the king had ventured below stairs.  “Hey, bring the light up.”

 

The closest nook was full of crates.  With the Grey Warden sigil burned into the side.  This must be the cache of things Loghain had confiscated from the Warden barracks.  Where Riordan had found the items needed to complete a Joining. 

He slid the top of the crate nearest him and stared into the contents before pulling out one of the bound ledgers, also emblazoned with the sigil.  Hesitantly, he finally opened it…almost expecting one of the Grand Cleric’s bolts of lightning to zap him as he did it, and flipped through, stopping abruptly when he recognized the handwriting.  Duncan.  Alistair stood closer to Terrance’s torch and read.

 

_We must do more recruiting if we are to present a strong enough force to meet the horde that will build if I am correct.  I should not have hesitated in calling for reinforcements from Orlais, despite the Teryn’s objections._

A bit farther on, the tone was less impersonal and Alistair could almost hear Duncan’s voice in his ear.

_I did not expect the dreams to begin again.  I did not believe I was so old, already.  But they are here.  And the Archdemon calls.  Quietly, but I hear it.  Maker, guide me.  The others are dreaming, too, though.  And that means it is not merely my own Calling that is keeping me awake.  I hope the coming days do not prove me out as a fool for not recruiting more widely._

 

The page was dated 5th Haring, Dragon 29.  Only a couple of months before Alistair had been rescued from the Chantry.  There was a pile of the ledgers, including one that caught his attention.  Flicking  through the loose pages told him yes.  This one would have the entries from around the time he’d been recruited.  The one from while Duncan had been at Highever, when he rescued Melisande, was missing.  The head Warden had likely kept it with his own gear, those things that had rotted on the field at Ostagar. 

 

Alistair hesitated.  He wasn’t a Warden any more, by his own hasty declaration.  He didn’t have a  _right_  to these.  To read what Duncan had been thinking.  But…

 

Gathering up the top three ledgers from the pile, he closed the crate and then Alistair nodded to Terrance.  “Come on.  I’ve wandered around in the dark long enough for one night.”

 

Gratefully, Terrance followed his king back up the stairs.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the companions’ march to Redcliffe was uneventful, but Loghain felt the stirring in the blood that whispered darkspawn as they made the approach from the west.  He saw Melisande’s focus shift as well and she turned her head to the silent call.

 

“Maker’s _balls_ …what…Tomas?!” 

 

The townsman turned soldier ran up to them, “Oh, Warden!  Thank the Maker!  We thought we’d been abandoned again.  There are darkspawn everywhere, laying siege to the keep.”

 

“What about the troops?  The gathering army?”

 

“That Orlesian Warden sent ‘em off, mostly.  There’s a division of dwarves said they wouldn’t march without you but…”

 

“Sent them off where?”

“M’lady, I don’t know…just please?”

 

“Calm down, Tomas.  Take me to the overlook, so we can see what’s up.”

 

They made their way to the hidden path that took them to the overlook.  Alistair had shown this to her, months ago.  He’d told her he used to pretend he was a charmed statue, pledged to keep the village safe whenever it was endangered.  Coming back here and fighting off Connor’s resurrected army had been a little fulfillment of that old childhood dream.  And here was Redcliffe, yet again in danger.  “Blighted Void, he’s right.  There’s at least a hundred between us and the keep…”  She thought a moment.  “Morrigan?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You can hit them from here?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Alright.  Wait for us to get down to the tavern and then drop the world on their heads.  Wynne, I want you behind us…Zev, she’s your responsibility.  Get the people out as we go…but…” grimacing.  “Make sure they don’t run.  We’ll have to watch them for taint, tonight.”

 

“As you wish.”

 

The second battle for Redcliffe was fairly straight forward.  Sten, Shale and Oghren scattered the larger groupings as Melisande and Loghain dealt with the clean-up.  Leliana picked off outliers.  Morrigan’s spells cut off just as they got to the Keep, but before Melisande could worry, the mage reappeared and sent a set of hurlocks staggering with a nasty ice spell and a nastier laugh.

 

There were several archers on the Keep walls and between them all, the darkspawn in the courtyard were quickly routed.  Zevran and Wynne caught up just as Riordan emerged from the keep. 

 

“You are formidable indeed, Sister.”  He praised her as Melisande wiped her blades carefully.  She chose to ignore his familiar address this time, complaining didn’t seem to faze him much. 

 

“Yes, thank you.”  She said civilly before shouting, “Where the bloody blazes were you?  We’d have done better to have them attacked from both sides, don’t you think?”

 

Riordan shrugged, “Ah, well, I was with the archers.  But I needed to observe your technique in order to decide how best to address the greater horde.” 

 

Morrigan sneered.  “My.  If I had not been in your company for nearly a year, I believe I would begin to doubt the Grey Wardens’ reputation, Melisande.  But perhaps I was foolish to think an old man would show such ability as you.”

 

“I had not thought to find that the second Warden and the traitor would compare so favorably to a veteran.”  Sten agreed.

 

Riordan looked taken aback by her friends’ bluntness and Melisande couldn’t help a smirk when he finally recovered enough to continue.  “Please, there is much to discuss.  The horde has taken an unexpected turn.”

 

Melisande felt her levity evaporate.  “What?”

“Follow me.  Our host has prepared a meal.”  He ushered the companions into the keep.

They were greeted by Ser Perth and several of the other knights they had met previously.  “Did Alistair not return with you, Warden?” 

Melisande shook her head.  “Our king was needed in Denerim to restore the city.  He’s too valuable to have him facing the darkspawn.”

Perth blinked.  “Our king?  He…”  With a cough, he bent to whisper.  “I see.  And…is that Teyrn Loghain? I’m sorry, my lady.  I don’t mean to question, but…”

“A lot of things have changed, Ser Perth.  Loghain is a Grey Warden, now.  It’s his punishment.” 

“Can such an honor also be a punishment, my lady?”  He asked her, surprised.  “I would think that it was a strange thing to have him lifted so.”

“Being a Warden has its drawbacks, to be honest,” she said drily.  “And it’s just Melisande, remember?”

Bann Teagan rushed down the stairs.  “Lady Cousland, Melisande. Thank the Maker!”

Holding up a hand, Melisande asked, “Teagan, is it all right if I get my people fed and we just go through this once?”

Melisande saw them all settled at table and then, pretending to need to check on some provisions, left the great hall.  Teagan followed her.

“Melisande.  Eamon sent word of what happened.  I am sorry that the situation came between you and Alistair. “

Shrugging, Melisande pushed his concern away.  “It was necessary.  And…it’s done now.”

He sat a warm hand on her shoulder.  “You look tired.”

With a wan smile, she sighed.  “Long road.  But it’s almost over, I think.”

“You need some rest.  Shall I have something sent up?  I think the housekeeper has you set up in the same room as your last visit.”

Melisande tried to sound grateful when she replied.  “Sounds good.  Something substantial for Finbar.”  The last time, she and Alistair had shared a room. 

“Of course.”  The bann watched her walk up the stairs with regret in his heart.  She’d have made a fine queen.

Riordan caught her, though, before she got to the landing.  “If I could have a word with you, Sister.”

“What is it?”

“I have asked Loghain to meet us upstairs, as well.  We have some things to discuss.”

He caught a flash of heat in her grey eyes, but she only nodded. 

By the time they arrived at the Orlesian warden’s quarters, Riordan was pacing.  “I know you have questions.  I am deeply sorry that I could not answer them when you wished.”

“Of course.”  Melisande’s flat tone didn’t seem to surprise him.

“You were right.  It does take a Warden to slay an Archdemon.” 

Melisande closed her eyes for a minute and tried not to reel with the admission.  It was both a relief and a weight.  She’d been right.  She hadn’t ruined things with Alistair for nothing.  But there was no doubt that the absolute knowledge, that in a week or so one of them in this room would be dead, was utterly sobering.

Acidly, she said, “So helpful, now.  And what was the reason, Riordan, that you could not have told me and…us in Denerim? Why have you not been recruiting?  There are soldiers here, we could fill out the ranks.”

The man swallowed and then looked back at her.  “It was not…appropriate.  There was too much chance that the secret could get out.  And we had only enough of the blood to take one.  The potion requires a certain amount of Archdemon blood and the supply here was contaminated.  I did what I could and created one.  It was the king who decided to…”

She cut him off, though, with a sharp wave.  “I understand.  Fine.”

Loghain was pacing on the thickly woven rug, with a deep frown on his face but he stopped suddenly.  “If it is…I would like to be the one to kill the Archdemon.  I…owe it to you, to the Wardens.”  His clear blue eyes met hers solemnly.

Riordan shook his head.  “I am the traditional choice.  I will not be spared from the taint much longer and so I must be the first to try my hand.  If I fail, then it will be up to you.”

“Is there anything else?”  He shook his head again.  Melisande turned on her heel and pulled the heavy wooden door shut behind her, but Loghain caught it and followed her through to the hall.

“I meant what I said.  I will take the final blow.  It was for that that you had me made a Warden, is it not?”  Loghain found himself studying her face.

There were dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks were hollow in the flickering torch light that illumined the halls of Eamon’s home.  The trek had not been easy on Melisande Cousland.  If he didn’t know better, he’d not recognize her as the confident, happy young woman who had strode into the throne room at the palace days before.  Only the straight spine and the fierce blaze of spirit in her eyes remained the same, but even that was pared down to its basest nature.  Un-tempered by the life that had surrounded her, it was a cold flame that failed to warm.

Her response surprised him, though.  Crisply, she shook her head.  “No.  I made the decision because it was the best one.  We’ll have a Theirin worthy of the name on the throne.  As a Grey Warden, you are removed from influence.  Well…supposedly,” Melisande gave a tiny smirk at his raised eyebrow.  I admit to some…personal interests, but they were not the only influence on my decision.”  And Maker help her, it was true.  She’d been trying her damnedest to ignore it, but she’d manipulated Alistair to take the throne.  And so perhaps she deserved this.

Glancing down, Loghain had to cover his mouth to hide his own smile.  “You are a Cousland, born true.”

That seemed to startle her, something flaring in her eyes.  “Do you think?”

“I do.”  “Lady Cousland, I realize that we are not to be compatriots.  I’m not a fool.  But I knew your father.  I respected him.  I think…Bryce would be very proud of what you have accomplished under very dire circumstances.”  He was surprised when her spine slumped.  She looked up at him from underneath her lashes, seeming suddenly very young.

“Would he?  I don’t think he’d be proud at all to claim a killer as a daughter.  Or that the line will die with me.  I succeeded in my vengeance against Howe, hollow though that was.  But that is not who my parents raised me to be.”

He waved one hand, expansively.  “You’ve survived.  You’ve raised an army that will live in legend.  You ended a civil war and placed the man of your choice on the throne.  We will defeat the horde.  Those are things a father would be proud of, believe me.”  His voice threatened to choke off, and he had to pause for a moment.  “For what it’s worth, I am sorry for what you have lost.  For what I cost you.  Both with my support of Howe and…later.”

Melisande gazed at him levelly.  Her eyes were very like her mother’s, but Eleanor Cousland’s had never been quite so bleak, in Loghain’s recollection.  Her earlier emotion was buried again and she nodded, distantly.  “You cost me nothing, ser.  I gave it away myself.  Good night.” 

She padded away from him, on the silent cat feet that came from her skill set, her spine set straight again as the shadows closed around her.  Things the girl had probably learned at her mother’s knee, along with that stately poise.  Loghain, himself, had lost those shadow tricks somewhere along the line, growing over confident in his place in the palace halls. 

And, not for the first time, Loghain wished he had managed better in Maric’s stead.

\---000---

Morrigan was lying in wait Melisande, in the Warden’s fire-lit room, indulgently allowing Finbar to nose through the herbal packs she’d brought along with her.  The witch looked sinister as she turned towards Melisande, the changeable light highlighting the little bird skulls with which she’d adorned her robes.  It had been a long time, now, though, since Melisande had been afraid of Morrigan and her ways.  Wicked she could be, but no more so than any of them.  Assassins and abominations, traitors, invaders and creatures of legend. Only Alistair had ever been a proper hero…Melisande bit off her thought, instead forcing herself to wonder casually what Morrigan had done with the dozen or so fancy bits and pieces Melisande had picked up for her, when she realized how starved for beauty the witch girl was.

 

“I have a proposal for you, my friend.”  Morrigan’s sly voice curled around Melisande inviting conspiracy, but she resisted the lure. 

 

 

“Morrigan, I’m tired.  I just want to try and get some sleep.  You ought to bed down, too.  It’s a long slog we’ll have tomorrow.”

 

“You should hear me out.  I think it would be to your advantage.”

 

Melisande sunk to the bed and Finbar trotted over to wedge his ears under her hand.  “Fine.  What is it, then?”

 

Scratching Finbar’s head, she listened as Morrigan laid out the ritual that she’d discovered in Flemeth’s grimoire. Her fingers kept scratching even as her mind scrabbled to keep up with what Morrigan was telling her.   After her friend had finished, Melisande let the silence yawn for a minute.  “You just now learned of this?”

 

Morrigan stuttered, for the first time, a clear sign she was startled by Melisande’s question.  “Well, no.  I have been reading all along.  Since you brought me the true book.  But…”

 

“When we went to Denerim for the Landsmeet and faced Loghain.  Did you have some idea of this…option?”

 

“I…yes.”  Morrigan’s fierce eyes were hooded and wary and in that Melisande read the truth, that Morrigan had known all along what it would take to slay the Archdemon. 

 

Bile churned in her gut, springing forth in the acid tones of her voice.  “And you said nothing?  You knew of something that might save us then?  And you knew about the Archdemon and what it took and you didn’t…” 

 Morrigan was surprised at the bewildered hurt on Melisande’s face. “Would you have considered it?  Sharing your lover with me?  Do you think he would have…”  The Warden was back on her feet and moving forward, her hands clenched so tightly that her knuckles had gone dead white. 

A chance to take Alistair with her?  Oh, she would have considered it.  More than considered it.  To fight with him at her side and emerge triumphant together?  She’d have _leapt_ at it and left the consequences to hang themselves.

 

“I thought…I was your friend, Morrigan.  We deserved to know.  If you knew…You could have backed me up.  Maybe he would have believed…”  Melisande closed her eyes.  _Maker.  Why now?  Why not_ …”Get out.”

 

“What?”

 

“ _Get out_!”  One of the little knives Melisande kept on her person flashed out and buried itself in the chair next to Morrigan.  The witch drew herself up with narrowed eyes and mana burning on the tips of her fingers.

 

“Be careful, Warden.  You do not…”  Finbar came to his feet, growling viciously.  He might quite like Morrigan, but no one was allowed to speak to his person that way.  Distracted by the hound, Morrigan missed the flick of Melisande’s hand.

 

Another knife flashed.  This one slid across Morrigan’s bare shoulder and stung and…the witch turned ashen as she felt the poison snaking in her veins.  Melisande’s magebane, brewed under Zevran’s careful eye.

 

The Warden’s voice was hard and cold, sharp as her knives.  “ _Get out._   And if you go anywhere near Loghain with your demon’s bargain, I’ll see you dead, witch.  I’ll slit your throat myself.  NO.  I’ll take you drugged to the Circle.  I’ll see you made Tranquil.  Get out now, before I...”  Whirling, Morrigan didn’t stay to see the tears streaming down her former friend’s pale face.

 

Nor did Morrigan join the companions the next morning, when the companions set out for Denerim on a forced march in front of the gathered army.

 

“And where is our lovely Witch of the Wilds?”  Zevran asked his Warden when she emerged from the keep. 

 

“Gone and good bloody riddance.  Let’s go.”  Wincing in the light, Melisande pulled her hood over her face and strode out of Eamon’s courtyard


	5. Chapter 5

Eamon had finally left Alistair to himself again, after a seemingly endless lecture on the current state of Ferelden relations with other nations.  To be honest, Eamon seemed rather fixated on the trading losses with Orlais instead of what seemed more urgent to Alistair, the fact that a good chunk of the population of the southern reaches had exiled themselves to the Free Marches. 

Alistair pulled the journal he’d been reading late into the night out of the desk drawer where he’d stashed it when his uncle had burst into his room that morning.  Flipping through, he found the dogear he’d hastily turned down.  He’d just been about to read the part where…

Ah, here it was.                                               

_7 Harvestmere_

_I’ve finally tracked young Alistair down to the Chantry in Denerim.  I was too easily led to believe that the Arl had the best of intentions,that Alistair would be better off with an established family of mark than travelling around with a ragtag bunch of Wardens.  And time has slipped by faster than I realized it would.  He’s a man grown._

_Arl Eamon was singularly unhelpful in my search.  He may realize my connection with his ward’s other family.  Fiona was livid when she discovered what had happened and I must do what I can to remedy matters._

_I’ve arrived just in time, it seems.  He is scheduled to take his vows after the tournament._

_8 Harvestmere_

_Maker’s Breath, what have I done?  I was forced to conscript the lad to get him away from the Templars and the Grand Cleric._

_This was not what Fiona had in mind, I’m sure.  Nor Maric, either.  But perhaps, with the dreams that have come, it is what the Maker intended.  Alistair may not be the finest of warriors yet, but there is a natural sense of honor and something of steel in him, despite what his raising has wrought.  Something that time may hone.  He knows who he is…well, he knows of Maric.  I have not been able to get him to speak of knowledge of his mother, if he has any.  He has the look of Maric about him, too, though bigger and a bit raw-boned.  Time will tell if he has anything else of his father, but if tenacity is bred in the bone, he’s been given that as well._

_10 Harvestmere,_

_Alistair is not the quietest travelling companion I could have hoped for.  But he does have humor.  Of a sort._

_He will need it, in the coming days, I fear.  The Archdemon is rising, I’m sure of it.  The dreams have come on too vividly.  I nearly scared the boy out of his wits last night with my…well.  I am the oldest of the Wardens in Ferelden.  It is my duty to kill the Archdemon and take it to the Void with me.  I must pass the knowledge on to the other veteran Wardens, in case I fall too soon._

_13 Harvestmere_

_It is done.  He lived, thank the Maker.  Riordan and Geordi witnessed the Joining of Alistair Fitz-Theirin to the Order of the Grey Wardens.  Another recruit, an elf by name of Tavish, did not survive.  I am not sure I have ever seen such a horrible death in all the Joinings I have witnessed.  I wonder if our supply of the Archdemon blood used in the mixture has become contaminated with the rise of another?  A speculation to send to the First Warden._

_I must tell the others, while the boy recovers.  And of their duty, should I fall.  I will send Riordan and Tyrell to the Anderfels tomorrow.  I will send letters out as well.  Orzammar and Gwaren might have recruits worth having, but I must not waste time in travel to places I will not be welcome.  And I should go to Highever.  I haven’t seen Bryce in some time, he spoke well of a few of the knights he’s had the training of and he should know about my fears.  And his children are of age now.  His youngest, perhaps._

Alistair pushed the journal away so violently it nearly fell off the desk, standing abruptly from the chair he’d pulled up to read in.  With Duncan’s words thrumming through him, he rose to pace by the low-silled windows of the study that he’d been assigned.  Given.  Whatever.

She’d been right. 

 _Maker help me._   Melisande had been right about the Archdemon.  And he’d been deemed too young to know the truth.  Or…why had Duncan acted like he’d been looking for Alistair?  He’d never said anything about knowing of Alistair’s life, just that he was looking for recruits.  For people with some inestimable quality.  He reeled from that thought to the other.

Meli had been _right._   _What had he done_?

After a moment, guilt clawing up at him, Alistair forced it aside. 

It…it didn’t matter.  He’d have been…no, not happy to die.  But willing.  Willing to die.  To save Ferelden?  All of Thedas?  To save her?  Maker, yes, he’d have been willing.

But Alistair could see it now, what had been going on in her mind.  It was so easy to forget, when she was just Meli, that she’d been a noblewoman taught politics and a rogue trained to take advantage of every little crack in the armor of an opponent.  If she could have Loghain in place to take the blow for them, then they would be free to…

Live. 

But Loghain’s name would go down as a hero.  The little rebellion, the small matter of his traitor’s manipulation would be forgotten to history and only the fact that he killed an Archdemon would be remembered.  The betrayal.  Cailan’s death, _Duncan’s_ death would all be swept under the rug and only the occasional dusty scribe would recall them.

No.  It didn’t matter.  Right or not, this changed nothing.  It was worse.  The idea of following them, of allowing Loghain the honor…bile boiled up in his throat.  The scraping as the door opened across the flags drew his attention.

A servant, one of the elves, peeked into the study.  “Your Majesty?  The Arl of Redcliffe is waiting your pleasure, sire, in the Red Chamber.”

With a sigh, Alistair answered.  “Yes.  I suppose he is.  Show me.”

Hesitantly, the elf asked.  “Are…are you well, Your Majesty?”

Alistair blinked at him.  “I’m….yes, thanks.  What’s your name again?” 

The elf’s long, delicate ears turned a deep pink.  “Ferron, sire. “

“Lead on, Ferron.  I’m right behind you.”  He picked up the journal and tossed it back in the drawer before following the slight fellow to yet another of Eamon’s lectures.

The meeting did little to distract Alistair.  He looked up with a sharp glare and a growled “What?” when the arl went so far as to reprimand him for doodling on the lesson on imports in front of him.  Alistair apologized, but Eamon seemed to back off from his intended scolding and the seneschal excused himself abruptly.

A few hours later, Alistair found himself at table finally, but he couldn’t seem to find his usual interest in a meal.  He tore into a chicken leg, anyway, chewing and tasting nothing as the daughter of someone he was supposed to care about went on about…surely she wasn’t really telling him about the shade of her pet rabbit’s fur?

  It wasn’t as if Melisande was _alone_.  She had Zevran and Sten, Leliana and Wynne, even Shale and Oghren would defend their Warden with their last breaths. 

After dinner, he brooded through the introductions Eamon found it necessary to perform, nodding absently at the Bann of Someplace and the Ambassadors of Far Away and Really, Who Cares. 

No matter his own intentions, though, it seemed the Fade had other ideas about letting Alistair ignore Melisande’s actions.

He’d barely closed his eyes when he was sucked into another violent dream. 

This one came only in flashes, painted in bloody red light like the fading glare of a sunset.

  _Melisande, defiant and smiling fiercely on the battlefield, grey eyes flashing.  And Loghain beside her as they battled towards the Archdemon on the plains below Redcliffe.  The teyrn holding his own as she dashed and parried, and wove her way closer and closer to the Archdemon._

_Then a mocking laugh when they stood, almost victorious, over the creature’s horned head.  The teyrn walking away and Melisande shouting after him.  The tainted dragon stirring and Melisande’s desperate face as the clamoring horde threatened to overwhelm her.  And her bright Topsider’s Honor gleaming in the garish light as she struck the blow and died screaming and still defiant and alone._

Alistair woke, sweating and sick at heart again.  And this time, he did not resist the urge to grab his armor and dress in the still, fire-lit room buckles and braces closing under his practiced fingers.  No matter what she’d done…he couldn’t leave her with only a traitor to watch her back.

He hesitated for a moment, then slipped his lucky token and the white rune she’d found for him into the pouch at his belt.  Spying a glint on his desk, he picked up the Warden’s Oath and watched the glass dangle from its leather thong.  One of the servants must have found it, when he’d ripped it from his neck and thrown it to the side after he heard about Loghain surviving the Joining.

 It was Meli’s.  In a rare moment of sentimentality, they’d traded the tokens not long after they’d entered the Dead Trenches.  “In case....” she hadn’t finished her sentence. But the horde of darkspawn following the Archdemon had shaken them both.  Even after Ostagar, Alistair had never dreamed there were so many of the creatures. 

He held the small vial in his hand, the blood it held dark and sludgy.  Melisande had worn it and then his with full knowledge of what she would be called to do.  He closed his hand around the charmed glass and whispered, an old prayer coming to his lips unbidden, before he slipped the thong over his head and tucked the vial into his underjerkin.  Then he scribbled a note to Eamon, apologizing and naming the arl regent and ruler in his stead, with Anora to take the throne, if Alistair did not survive the battle.  He left the note under the small circlet he was supposed to wear for times of state, until the coronation.

By some miracle, it was Terrance who had guard duty over his sleeping.  Alistair didn’t know why the fellow seemed so enamored of him, but he’d been walking with rogues too long not to take advantage of it. 

“Terrance.  I need a favor.”  He dropped his voice low and watched the guard’s soft brown eyes go wide with only the slightest of guilty consciences.  Ah, the Maker had probably damned him to the Void years ago, anyway, all the screaming in the Chantry he used to do.

 


	6. Chapter 6

A bit at a loss, Loghain was uncharacteristically wavering in his decision.  Cousland had definitely had him made a Warden to use him to slay the Archdemon.  But something had happened to change her mind.

The nightmares were terrible.  The gnawing hunger was demoralizing, though none of the companions chided him for it, although the dwarf would occasionally grumble under his beery breath about needing to do more hunting.  The occasional surprise attack from small groups of darkspawn were a constant drain on energy.  But all this, she’d been dealing with for the months past. 

Something was different.  Loghain found her an efficient and brisk leader, quiet and comfortable in her command.  The others seemed to find that same quiet disturbing.  An outsider, it was easy to watch and note where the assassin or the little bard would try and start a conversation only to be stymied by her short, though gentle responses. 

He had seen soldiers, especially commanders, before who had withdrawn into themselves.  It made the process of grief afterwards, after death, a little easier to bear.  But whose death was Cousland contemplating; her companions or her own?  He thought he knew.  He’d seen Maric, after all, in the days after a betrayal.

Loghain found his chance not long after Melisande and Leliana went down the path towards the creek to bring up water for the evening.  “Enchanter.  Might I have a word with you?”

The mage’s pale blue eyes seemed to see through his soul, black though it probably was.  “If you must.”

Wynne followed him back to her tent before she stopped abruptly.  “I don’t believe I’m going to invite you in, warden.  What is this about?”

“Cousland.  She is…do you know what it is we must do?  To kill the Archdemon and end the Blight?”

Wynne glare at him for a moment before she answered softly, playing with a sprig of some herb in her fingers that let off a pungent odor as it was crushed.  “I do.  It did not surprise me, once I thought about it.”

Snorting, Loghain shook his head.  “Well, it shocked the Void out of me.  But there it is.  She must not be allowed to do it, Enchanter.”

“Why?”  The old woman’s challenge startled him.  “Why should she not have the honor of ending the Blight she’s spent the last year fighting?”

“Honor?”  He spit out the word.  “Honor is a word for boys and tales, Enchanter and if you didn’t know it before, surely you do by now.  This is death and nothing more.  And she deserves better than that, surely?”

“You spent the last year trying to see her dead.  Why do you care?”  If she’d been a snake, she’d have hissed.  But as it was the words came out in a shouted whisper.

The teyrn seemed to deflate before her eyes.  “Let me make up for a few of my mistakes, Enchanter.  Let me…I can never live it down, the time I have cost us.  But I can ensure that she lives, to help rebuild Ferelden.   She made Maric’s bastard king.  I know he won’t see the sense in joining with Anora, but for Ferelden...”  Loghain trailed off, watching the last of the light fade from the tops of the grove they camped near.  “I don’t know about Alistair, but with Cousland by his side, I believe it will be better.”

She had never been  a woman to dwell too much on could have beens, and Wynne made her decision swiftly.  She pushed aside the tent flap.  “Come in and tell me what you are thinking.  Quickly, before the girls return.”

 

\---000---

Alistair and his shadow, Terrance, had been on horseback and off before dawn broke.  Alistair hadn’t sat a horse since his days in Eamon’s stables, but old habits came back swiftly.  Well, at least he only fell off the one time. 

They rode hard, pausing only to drink and eat and finally by necessity, to trade an hour’s sleep.  The horses allowed them to make up time, but the pace began to tell on them and again, the two men had to pull up. 

As they drew water from an abandoned well, a small group of travelers  piled into the meadow behind them.  Alistair walked over to warn them off.

“You should rest, but go back as soon as you can.  The Redcliffe road leads to the darkspawn and a fight.”

An older man, bent with farm work, shook his iron-grey head when he spoke for the group.  “No, ser.  The Blight’s behind us.  Mabel and her man saw them ‘spawn with their own eyes, coming up the way from Gwaren.”

Bewildered, Alistair stared at the man.  All the scout reports had claimed the horde was headed to Redcliffe, to the heart of Ferelden.  If the mass of them were coming from Gwaren, then…”Tell me everything you know!”

\---000---

 

 

The rancid smoke reached them before they even saw Denerim, wisps of it drifting in on the wind.  Fetid and dank, it warned them of what they would see.

 

Melisande paused for a minute to strike mud from her boots and allowed Riordan to make his speech and to set orders.  Finbar growled at her feet, watching the man speak.  She’d have to leave him here.  There was too much of a chance her hound would realize what she was meant to do and try and stop her.

A few slavering hurlocks occupied the heights of the watch towers.  They threw the corpses of the human guards over and the bodies fell with meaty thuds to the broken ground.  Maker, if the bloody Orlesian didn’t stop chattering, there wasn’t going to be anything left to rescue in the city. 

Pacing as though she were caged, a small part of Melisande’s mind slipped away from what was about to happen. Was Alistair there?  Or had the nobles forced their king to retreat to safer ground?  No.  He was here. He was fighting.  No matter what Alistair had said about being nothing but the king, it wasn’t in him to turn his back on people in need. He had the whole of the guard at his back.  Kylon, perhaps.  He was a good man, the sergeant.  He could defend his king. 

Hurlocks mockingly jeered at them, waiting for their chance to slaughter the fresh combatants.  Several of the more intelligent called out challenges to the Warden blood they sensed.

Her fingers itched for steel and the silence that would descend on her.  It would go away, finally.  The constant refrain of should have would have could have.

Loghain cleared his throat and when she glared at him, the teyrn nodded towards Riordan.  Apparently he’d asked her something.  “What now?”

He gazed at her with solemn eyes before bowing, finally.  “You cannot take everyone.  We need experienced fighters left to defend the gate.  Maker keep you, Wardens.”

Before Riordan strode away, a small stirring made Melisande speak.  It was like to be the last she saw of him.  Custom and her hard-earned manners required an acknowledgement.  “Riordan!”

“Yes?”

Formally, she bowed as well.  “Andraste guide your sword, Warden.”  He smiled at her and she realized he wasn’t as old as she’d thought.  Giving a jaunty wave, Riordan slipped off into the battle and she couldn’t see him amidst the fighting that followed. 

It didn’t take long to clear a small break in the mass of darkspawn guarding the gate, though.  It took only moments, it seemed and suddenly, they were in the city.  And the time for parting came.  Melisande blinked, clearing her eyes of a brief haze.

Holy Maker.  They were here.  It would end, one way or another.  She turned to her companions.  “Wynne, Leliana…Loghain are with me.  The rest of you…watch each other’s backs.  Thank you.  Maker keep you.”

She meant to turn then and walk into the roaring, burning city.  But she had forgotten that none of her companions were short on words when the spirit took them.  It wasn’t a mere haze that she had to wipe away before they were done.


	7. Chapter 7

Alistair and Terrance made it back to Denerim as the last of the darkspawn charge to the gate was dispatched.  There was a lull in the attack but Alistair didn’t trust it to last long.  Slapping Terrance on his shoulder, he shouted.  “Go to the palace and make sure that Anora has been evacuated.  Just in case I, we fail.”

The young man shook his head.  “Your Majesty…”

Alistair rounded on him.  “That is an order, guardsman!”

“I…Yes, sire.” Pale, Terrance nonetheless grabbed a surviving guard and ran towards the palace.  Alistair turned to the gate and saw Finbar, licking a massive paw.  Maker, she’d left her mabari behind?  There was only…no, he wouldn’t think of that.  “Finbar!”

The hound trotted up, whining and pushed his massive, bloodied head under Alistair’s hand.  “We’re going to go get her, we’ll find her,” Alistair promised.  A sharp bark acknowledged him and they headed off, both ignoring the calls from Sten and Oghren.

Broken and burning around them, the calls of the dying and the terrified washing over him, but Alistair ignored them.  Focused, turning himself back to that duty he could never forsake.  Racing back to Melisande's side where he belonged. 

Alistair pelted up the steps of Fort Drakon, Finbar at his heels.

He berated himself again as he stalked through the keep, past the piles of bodies.  He'd  _left_  her to this. Maker, no wonder he’d been having nightmares. 

 

Countless darkspawn lay interspersed with handfuls of the troops they,  _she_ , had gathered.  Denerim was a charnel house, and he'd let her come into it without her second, hated her for not putting his wants, his hurts ahead of her command decisions.

 

Chest heaving with the effort, Alistair stood at the door of the roof, buffeted by the noise and chaos of the battle.  His dauntless mental smart-mouth couldn’t help but ask,  _Really? Purple fire. This was a thing.  Maker_. Remnants of a firestorm licked past him and Finbar, who whined at his hesitation.  He brought his shield up, nearly on reflex at the advance of a hurlock, who noticed the new wardenmeat. 

A bash and a stroke and the creature was dispatched as the mabari barreled past him, tiny gleaming eyes locked on a distant target. Finbar would know where she was, even if Alistair couldn't divine that singular pull, surrounded by taint.

 

It took more than a mabari howl and a couple of bashes to clear the path though. By the time they got to the center ballista dais, his formerly gleaming armor was black with gore, Maric's sword dripping with tainted blood. He saw the Archdemon collapse and then he heard the screaming.  _Her_  screaming. He whipped around in a panicas Finbar charged forward with a baying cry.

 

 _There_. 

 

She was caught in a bubble of familiar magic **,**  the sort Wynne normally used to protect a fallen comrade until help could arrive. Melisande **,**   _his_  Meli, shrieking at the center of the crystalline shield, her low, sweet voice gone hoarse and ragged in exhaustion and pain. 

"Letmegoletmegodon'tmakemeIcan'tWynneIjustcan'tnomoreletmegonotbymyself, please.   _Maker_.  Wynne, let me  _end_  it."

Sweet Andraste. Was it blood magic?  Was Wynne enthralled _?_    Alistair ran to aid her, dragging in a centering breath to drop a Silence on the mage as he came up behind her, to break whatever hold she was attempting on Melisande.

"Loghain!" Wynne gasped, the bubble holding a struggling Melisande clearly taking all her will to maintain. "Now!  I can’t hold her."

Alistair realized then - Wynne wasn't trying to hurt her, this was no darkspawn trick or confusion. She was trying to keep Melisande from killing the Archdemon herself.

If Loghain couldn't, he could. Alistair turned towards the huge tainted dragon...  _thing_  only to hear a crack like lightning striking a tree as Melisande wrenched herself from Wynne's control. He reacted on instinct, grabbing her slim wrist as she launched past him and she slashed at him blindly with one of the endless array of knives Meli kept stashed, a snarl on her bloodied lips.  A brief look of confusion crossed her face looking at him, before she turned back to the Archdemon.

He took the blow, armor absorbing most of the impact. Maker, she didn’t even seem to recognize him.  He dithered for a minute. Had to kill the damned thing, but if he let her go _..._

Loghain appeared, relieving him of his choice at the same moment that Wynne snatched Melisande into another spell. She was screaming again. This time though, it was pain from the magic, not frustration.  Wynne was using whatever she could to hold her.  No finesse now, he could feel the mana waning, proof that the mage was wilting.  Tears streamed down Melisande’s face as she fought, her wild grey eyes locked on the tainted dragon.

There was part of a broken blade jutting out of the teyrn’s shoulder, blood and darkspawn bile coating the blackened metal. He paused for a minute, trying to catch his breath.  Alistair tried to think of something to say, but Loghain, like Melisande, seemed caught in the fight and had eyes for nothing but his own death as he gathered himself and ran towards the Archdemon and his fate.

 

**\---000---**

Alistair insisted on carrying Melisande from the keep, himself. She'd collapsed in the aftermath of the Archdemon's explosive death, dropping with only a whimper as Wynne released her. He’d grabbed her up and only just managed not to snarl like her mabari when Leliana tried to touch her.  She was too light in his arms, even in the foreboding unfamiliar black leathers she'd encased herself in. Meli, who never liked to wear a full set because she wasn't a soldier, she was a sneak.  She was even wearing a hood.

"Haven't you fed her in the last two weeks?" He couldn't help but growl at Wynne, limping just behind them.  She turned cool eyes on him and replied in her Grand Cleric voice.

"You have no right to question her treatment since you abandoned her, Alistair." And blast it, she was right, so he shut up until they reached the healer's tent that the Chantry had set up just moments before.  It had always been him to slip an apple or bread or jerky in her hand when she'd forgotten or been too tired to eat the extras that a warden required.  He'd laughed over it, his heavy duty as her second.  Shocking that anyone could  _forget_  to eat. 

Alistair laid her down on the first empty cot and let Wynne and another healer fuss over her. He only wanted to watch over her, to not take his eyes from her. But he couldn't help but ask when they pulled the armor’s hood back, "When did she cut her hair?" All of her beautiful, thick long red-gold hair just gone.  It was shorn nearly to her skull at the back, bangs ragged and singed where fire had sparked through them and too long over her face. 

"It was like that when she came down the morning we left for Redcliffe." Leliana answered slowly, her normally sparkling eyes dull and they closed as she braced against the tent pole. "I trimmed it up at camp one evening, she finally let me.”  It hadn't been necessary to say why. They all knew why.

 

The new healer looked up from his examination of the prone Warden, her lithe form limp against the bedding. "I believe it to be a natural sleep, Your Majesty. She is simply exhausted, understandably. A head wound, but no concussion.  There are injuries, of course and some extensive bruising, but nothing that will not be easily healed.”  He paused before continuing.  “There is some…perhaps rations were short on her march?” The old mage didn’t want to suggest that the Warden had been starved and hurriedly moved on with a fluttering of his hands. “None of her wounds are terribly serious. She should recover soon, if she is allowed to rest and sleep herself out." Wynne nodded her agreement, wearily.  After sending a warm pulse of healing magic through Melisande, the man turned to Leliana to address the gash across her chin and the nasty bruises blooming on her arms. 

"We will let her sleep, then." Alistair said.  He shucked a few pieces of the armor she’d found for him, spaulders and vambraces, sliding down the braced fabric wall to sit next to the cot on the hastily planked rough floor, never taking his eyes from her pale face, the long eyelashes in bright fans against her skin. Finbar laid himself beside Alistair, eyes in much the same track. The mabari had followed Alistair down from the Fort, determined not to be left again.  Finbar had finally seemed to accept that Alistair would be beside his mistress.

 

The healer set orders for Melisande to receive a bolstering rejuvenation spell in an hour and cleared the rest of them with only superficial wounds as the companions who held the gate trickled in to check on their leader.  Alistair accepted their silences as his due, though he appreciated Oghren's rough clap on the shoulder before the dwarf left.

 

She still hadn't woken two hours later, when they transferred her to the palace. The building had remained relatively unscathed, once the fires were out, and the Chantry’s healing tent was needed for the vast number of dying and injured. 

Alone, Alistair stripped her from her armor, after a bit of hesitation.  The leather was too tainted to take a chance that someone else could be exposed to the blight.  He wrapped it in a blanket and set it outside the door, so that it could be burned. 

With a sigh, he turned back and set about trying to clean her up.  There weren’t many servants around at the moment and Leliana and Wynne were both, hopefully, resting.  There was only him, even though it felt like a dreadful invasion of Melisande’s privacy.  But she would hate a stranger touching her.  Swallowing hard, he picked up the flannel cloth in the bowl of water and wiped her face, working his way down her neck.  Alistair spied a leather thong and tugging at it…oh.  She was wearing the Warden’s Oath as well, his…tucked carefully under…

The tunic…oh, blast.  Far too big and sweat-stained, Alistair recognized it one of his own.  There on the shoulder was one of his inexpert mends.  It took him a moment to continue, rubbing the slubby fabric between his fingers.  

Steeling himself, with a mocking thought, he lifted the shirttail only to stop again, gasping at the scar that splayed under her ribs.  What in Andraste’s name had happened there?  It looked like something had come very close to gutting her and the puckered skin was a sure sign that healing had come slowly.  He brushed it with the damp cloth, yanking back guiltily when her skin twitched under his touch.  

Finally, he just slit the fabric up the middle and the sleeves and eased it off of her.  She’d kept it.  It had meant something to her, but it was filthy.  A maid could tend the rest of her, relatively safely, he decided, tucking the blankets around her.

The healers and the First Enchanter himself agreed on her relative health.  Teagan had begged Alistair to rest while he could before the duties of state began.  He was about to go and bathe, at least, when he heard a voice that was familiar in cadence and accent if far lower in pitch.

"She's here.  I'm her brother.  You will bloody well let me in!"

 

Alistair stuck his head out of the door and recognized somehow- a man he'd never seen, arguing with the guard at the entrance to the hall.  Melisande had described Fergus Cousland to a t.  Finbar roused himself and gave a decidedly acknowledging huff of a bark.

 

Alistair waved off the guard as Fergus stuck his hand out to the hound for a sniff and then scratched the little ears before raising an eerily familiar eyebrow to Alistair.  "Finbar, thank the Maker.  Who in Flames are you?" 

 

The guard looked to be close to apoplexy but Alistair shook his head.  "Alistair."  He got a blank stare from the Teyrn  
of Highever.  "Oh.  Right, of course.  Um.  I'm the...other Grey Warden."

 

"I see."  Though it was plain he didn't.  "She really did it?  Ran off and joined the Wardens even though Father forbade it?"   

 

"Not exactly."

 

Fergus shook his head.  "Where is she?"

 

Alistair opened the door wider and stood aside to let Cousland by, into the neat room.  He was given a decidedly older brother  _look_  when Fergus saw his sister in her smalls on the bed.  She'd shifted and the green woolen blanket had fallen away a bit.  Alistair twitched it back into place.

 

"Always a restless sleeper."  Oh, great.  Good thing to say to her brother.  He wanted to bite his tongue, but Cousland ignored him to brush his fingers over Melisande's cheek.

 

"Was she injured?"  He whispered.

 

Alistair shrugged and whispered back.  "No more than usually.  It's been a hard year and the last two weeks have been...She's just tired, they tell me.  But, she should wake soon."

 

"Alright.  When did she cut her hair?" 

 

"Uh. A week ago, apparently." He received an appraising glance from cool blue eyes, very like his sister's in shape if not color. Fergus had the Cousland blues.  _I got mother's grey_ , he recalled her saying.

 

Fergus was quiet for a moment, tracing her face with his gaze, as if he'd never expected to see her again.  "She believed it to be her fault, then. Whatever occurred between you."

"What?"  No, seriously.  This was slack-jawed, even for him.  The man was going to think he was an idiot, which was not the opinion Alistair wanted his lover's brother to hold. 

Fergus touched one ragged red lock.  "It's a custom among the women of Highever. If they've grieved a loved one. If they believe they’ve done something unforgivable. In atonement, to show public contrition, they crop their hair and don the black."

Alistair stared a minute. He did manage not to stammer. "It wasn't her fault. It was me being an idiot, again. I couldn't see what she was...I didn't listen. She told me. I couldn't believe that Duncan wouldn't have **.**  The fault was mine." He whispered the last, willing her to hear him.   He wanted to gather her up to his chest again, tuck her into his shoulder, to beg forgiveness. Alistair had been telling her sorry since they'd left her to him, but he'd been afraid to touch her again without her permission. The way she'd looked at him when he turned from her.

"She always mocked the custom. Said it was foolish, sentimental nonsense, too little, too late. The women of the castle and village said it was because she hadn't the heart to feel sorrow."  Fergus smoothed her blanket, unconsciously unable to stop touching the little sister he'd believed dead until a week ago. Whispers of the Warden had reached him in the Highever hovel he'd been holed up in for the last few months, running a resistance to Howe since he’d crept home from the south.  

 

Fergus explained at Alistair’s questioning look. "She was always a cool one.  Shallow, I suppose. Kind enough, if it suited her, but...she'd occasionally forget."  The teyrn frowned at Alistair's clear surprise. "That other people needed tending and care for their feelings," he explained.

 

"That is not the woman I've come to know." Alistair paused. "If anything, she cared too much, fought too hard to save us all."

"Perhaps then, she finally grew up.  Mother always said she would."  Fergus sighed and rubbed his hand down over his worn face and unkempt beard.  It was clear that he had been recently ill and that he'd spent far too much time on the road.  Alistair caught his elbow as he staggered.

"There are cots set up in the room down the hall."

"I should probably take advantage of that."  Fergus rubbed Finbar's ears again, earning a fond low rumble.  "Nothing will get past this lad.  I'm glad to see him still with her."

The two men left the room as the mabari settled in the shadowy corner.  Alistair looked back before he closed the door, but Melisande hadn't stirred.  Still and pale as death, though the healers had assured him otherwise. 

Alistair bathed and meant only to claim a bed, but they directed him to his own room, of course. The hard ride to Redcliffe to try and catch up to his companions, only to reverse course halfway when the horde turned, caught up with him. He sat, just for a moment, and then leaned back and was asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Melisande woke from a dream, peaceful and quiet. Alistair and Fergus chatting amicably in the Great Hall at Highever **,**  standing in front of the blazing hearth.    She could smell Nan's muffins toasting, the dampness in Finbar's fur. She woke just as she attempted to join them, to lean against Alistair’s tall, broad presence  and laugh up into Fergus' sparkling blue eyes.

                                                                                                                            

The cool air of the castle settled on her skin. In a room, then. The softness beneath her. On a bed. Stillness around her, but breathing slow and heavy nearby. Alone, but Finbar’s close. So. Not dead then.

 

Maker. Why  _wasn’t_  she dead? Was this the Fade, again? But…it didn’t have that…she  _hurt_. A dull throb across the back of her skull, the heavy, hollow ache under her breastbone. She hadn’t hurt in the Fade.

 

There was a sound like a door scraping flagstones and Melisande closed her eyes, not wanting to give herself away until she understood more.

 

Someone entered. Melisande kept her breathing soft and her face still. A woman, by the light tread and the slight scent of flowers beneath honest sweat, padded about the room. She set a heavy item, a bucket from the sloshing, onto the stone flags and brushed a cloth along the surfaces of the bed and window, talking to Finbar, who huffed a welcome.

 

“Ah, it’s her good mabari. You are a fine fellow. Just keeping her room fresh and the bann asked me to check on your lady, too.” Melisande felt the woman pause at her bedside and adjust the softly scratching fine wool blanket across her chest. Then a rough crabbed hand, dry and cool was laid on her forehead. “Lady Cousland. They’re all waiting for you, for the celebrations. Your poor king only just slept. You should wake for him, at least.”

 

She moved on, slipping a broom around, before gathering her things and shutting the door behind her.

 

Meli opened her eyes, then, and raised her hand to Finbar, in the old bid for silence. He huffed, but didn’t disobey. Her bladder was insistent and her mouth felt like someone had poured sand stored in old socks into it. She shakily stood and stretched, wincing as muscle and tendon popped. Alleviating one problem, she found the pitcher and drank, slowly, letting the water cool her mouth, while she thought.

 

She’d told the others that she’d likely be heading to Weisshaupt if she survived the confrontation.  He’d told her once that that was where Wardens took their broader orders from.  If she stayed, there would be…what had the servant said?  Celebrations.  She would have to stand there and wave and pretend.  She’d play the teyrn’s gracious daughter, the king’s humble servant. 

 

His servant.  Not his…

 

Sod that.  She didn’t want to  _celebrate._   Only one option, she supposed, noting the falling dark, outside.

 

She couldn't stay. Not now. The way he had looked at her when she betrayed him.  Her king, the woman had said.  Melisande had to wonder what the servants’ gossip was claiming.  He probably hadn’t even mentioned her name.  She couldn’t stay and watch while he…married and…oh.   _Oh, Maker, please_.  She trembled for just a second, and gripped the mabari’s brindled fur in her hand, trying to ground herself.  No.  She would just keep moving.  Somewhere out there was her duty as a Warden.  Or the silence.  Maker, help her.  Whichever came first. 

 

Finbar had moved to her side as soon as she stood and she could see his beady eyes shining in the dim room, his head tilted as he considered her. She leaned on him as she assessed the situation, borrowing his strength and warmth. Her packs were piled in a corner and she glided silently to check them over. Her armor was gone, no doubt to be cleaned or thrown out, she supposed, considering how vile and contaminated it must have been. Melisande blinked for a minute, wondering which poor sod had been designated to get her out of it. 

 

No matter. She had a spare set. Her blades were cleaned and sharp in their scabbards. “Thanks, Zev,” she whispered, recognizing the scent of the knife oil he preferred.

 

Glancing at the door, she yanked out the spare leathers and strapped and buckled them, swiftly. The hooded cloak that Fergus had brought her from Antiva, still in decent repair, was reversible, so she left it out. She filled the two waterskins from the pitcher and tucked them into the plainer pack. Road tack and healer’s kit. A tarp, change of clothes, Warden’s Oath and throwing knives and her weapons kit filled out what she carried. No sentimental things. Nothing extra. The Warden’s Oath was only so she’d be recognized at Weisshaupt. Or Val Royale. Wherever she ended up, to report.

 

The other pack had the sentimental things. Trinkets she’d picked up for her companions, but hadn’t had a chance to hand over. And other things. Things of Alistair’s that needed… that should be returned. She left that on the bed, after she straightened her bedclothes. She gathered up some black soot from the brazier to brush over the pale highpoints of her face and fingers.

 

Then she slung her pack onto her shoulder and crouched down to Finbar, scratching his ears.

 

“I’m leaving. Meet me at the bottom gate. No noise.”

 

He cowered, indicating his displeasure.

 

“Stay and be silent or come and be silent.” She leveled her gaze on his ember-like eyes and waited.  Then pleaded, curling her fingers into the warm fur again, “Please, Fin.  I   _can’t_  stay here.”

 

Finbar tugged away and padded to the door. She listened, but heard no one, and so let him out. Drawing her cloak, she walked to the window and quietly threw the shutters. A hop up and over and she was scaling down, disappearing in the lingering gloomy haze, the grey cloak blending into the twilight, into the shadows that curled around her like old friends.

 

 Alistair startled awake, suddenly.  He’d not been dreaming but…something felt off.  Wrong.  He dressed quickly, grateful that in the disruption the servants that had been dogging his heels were clearly assigned elsewhere.

Trodding heavily down to the hall where Melisande’s room was, Alistair tried to press away the slight sense of apprehension.  Surely she’d woken.  When he pressed open the door, and didn’t spy her in the bed, a sharp joy tightened his chest.  And then he saw her pack, sorted through, her daggers missing.  And Finbar was gone. 

“Your Majesty!”  The guard straightened from a bored slump, a flush across her coffee colored cheeks. 

“It’s fine.”  Alistair sighed.  “When did the Warden wake?”

Frowning, the woman answered, “I’m sorry, sire.  She hasn’t yet.  Or if she has, she hasn’t come this way.”

“But…”  He trotted down the stairs, hauling around the corner and running into Zevran. 

Smirking, the assassin patted him on the chest as the king set him back on his feet.  “Well, you have kept fit, it seems.”

“Enough!  Have you seen Meli?”

“”What do you mean?  Our Warden was still asleep last I heard.”

“She isn’t in her room.  The guard hasn’t seen her either.”

“Ah.  I see.”  Zevran pursed his lips and leaned casually against the wall, with his thumbs in his belt before he continued.  “Hmm.”

Narrowing his eyes, Alistair did his best to use his height.  “You know something.  What?”

The assassin’s voice was cool and his bright eyes were flat and dangerous when he answered.  “Loom all you like, Alistair.  Melisande will still be gone.”

“What do you mean?”  When Zevran still hesitated, Alistair pressed.  “I know…I know you’re her friend, more than mine, Zevran…but…please?”  All of his threatening posture was gone and there was a pleading note in the king’s husky voice.

  _Sweet Andraste_ , Zevran laughed at himself.  No wonder Melisande had been unable to resist her fellow Warden’s advances, awkwardly charming though they’d been.   After a moment to appreciate the view of the tall, (broad, oh so male) human, Zevran sighed.  “She intended to go to Weisshaupt.  If she survived.  She meant to leave immediately, so that there would be no question of further interference in Fereldan politics.  I imagine she has done so.”

“To Weisshaupt?  But…”  Alistair’s mind flew.  She’d go to the harbor, then.  Were there any ships to be had now?  Or would she just head north along the road, to the port at Amaranthine?  He headed down the stairs to find Teagan only to notice he’d picked up a slim blonde shadow.  “What are you doing?”

“You mean to go after her, one assumes?” Zevran shrugged again.  “You are many things, my dear King, but you are no scout.  I shall accompany you and see how the tale ends.”  Grimmer, he added, “The roads will still be dangerous.  She would…you may yet find yourself in need of my services and so I cannot call my oath fulfilled.”

He wasn’t wrong.  Zevran had a sharp eye, too.  “Fine.  Just…Fine.  C’mon, I have to make arrangements.”

They found Teagan and Eamon in the chambers off of the library, going over some plans refortification and construction for Redcliffe.

Eamon rose, though Teagan didn’t and got a glare from the Arl.  “Your Majesty?  You should have sent for us, if you needed us.  You shouldn’t have had to come looking.”  Eamon chided Alistair, but the younger man had no time for it.

“Doesn’t matter.  I need to…Melisande has left…gone.  I’m going after her.  Just wanted to let you know.”

“Your Majesty, you can’t just scamper after your…mistress every time she…”  Eamon choked off at Alistair’s bark.

“She is not my…Look, I have to.  I’ll come back as soon as I talk to her.  But she’s on her way to Weisshaupt.  I have to.”

 Teagan laid a hand on Eamon’s sleeve.  “Brother…”

“No.  Alistair, you have responsibilities.  Send someone after her.  This elf, he’s one of her companions, is he not?”  Eamon waved a hand at Zevran as if he were a household servant.  Or less and Alistair ground his teeth at the slight, though Zevran just rolled his eyes.

“It has to be me, Arl Eamon.  She won’t…I have to talk to her.”

“She’ll come back if you summon her.  She seemed well-mannered, enough.”

“Melisande doesn’t generally respond well to summons, ser. She can’t have gotten too far. I may just need to go to the harbor…”

This time, it was Teagan who cut him off, shaking his head.  “No.  Every ship that was sea-worthy evacuated Denerim.  The only ones that have come back yet are small fishing skiffs.  Alistair, I thought she was injured.  When did she leave?”

 

“Last night, apparently.  If she hasn’t gone to the harbor then she’s on the road. It won’t take days to catch up with her and bring her back.”

Eamon shrugged.  “As I said, send a messenger.  You are the King of Ferelden.  Of course she’ll…”

“And Melisande Cousland is the Warden-Commander.  She will not stand for a mere summons.  And I wouldn’t order her about as if she were a servant, even if she was.”  Exasperated, Alistair shoved a hand in his hair.  “Look, Arl Eamon.  I’m not arguing about this.  I’m going.  I just wanted to inform you so that I could make arrangements for my absence.”

Sighing, the Arl shook his grey head.  “Fine.  I will attend your duties once again, whilst you play…”

But Alistair cut him off.  “No, my lord.  I mean to leave Teagan as regent in my stead.  You need to go back to Redcliffe.”

The old man’s face turned a nasty shade of red.  “What?”

“Alistair…”  Teagan looked to duck the fight.

“No.”  In a sharp voice, that he would never admit to borrowing from Melisande, Alistair stopped the argument.  Eamon had wanted a king and a king he would have.  “Arl Eamon, forgive me.  But as I recall, you have a son who has been through a dreadful experience and who will be missing his mother.  I can’t, in good conscience, leave him without a father as well.  You should have been on the road back to your keep as soon as the road was clear.”  More gently, Alistair sought to remind the older man, “Connor will have to go to Kinloch as soon as we get word from First Enchanter Irving that the Circle is rebuilt.  Don’t you want to spend some time with the boy?”

 He, Wynne and Meli had discussed that one night, before they left Redcliffe.  She hadn’t wanted to take Connor away from his home until the boy had recovered more fully and had some time to get used to the idea.  But it was too dangerous, Wynne had told them, for a young mage who had had the sort of demonic exposure that Connor had to be away from training too long.  In fact, Alistair thought, one of the mages that had lived through the battle ought to go back to Redcliffe with Eamon, just in case. 

A knock came to the door and Ferron peeked into the chamber.  “Your Majesty?  My lords?  Teryn Cousland wishes to speak with you.”

Alistair waved him in.

“Alistair, where is…”  Fergus stopped.  “Wait.  Your Majesty?”  Blinking.  “Oh, Maker.  You’re Maric’s bastard!”  Then, embarrassed, at the other men’s shocked looks he continued in a more respectful tone, “I mean, I apologize, Your Majesty, I...”

“Recognized me, did you?”  Alistair asked with a grin. 

Fergus answered with a rueful grin of his own.  “Well, I did grow up with a huge portrait of your father staring at me at supper every night.  And, ah, court rumors.  You know.”  The man’s blue eyes turned thoughtful.  “Melisande’s gone, Alistair.”

Nodding, Alistair was grim.  “I know.  I mean to go after her.  As soon as I decide…Amaranthine, I guess?”  He asked Zevran who was looking at Fergus, disbelief on his fine-boned face.  Oh, he hadn’t introduced “Zevran, this is Fergus Cousland.  Melisande’s brother.  Teyrn Cousland, this is Zevran Arainai, one of the Warden’s companions.”

“You look very fit for a man who has been dead for a year.”  Alistair rubbed at his forehead, a headache starting to build as Zevran managed to flirt even at the height of surprise.  Fergus coughed as he bowed.

“Zev…”

“She thought I was dead?”  A deep sorrow thickened the man’s voice and he moved to where a shadow crossed him, to give himself a moment of privacy.

Alistair spoke quietly.  “She went looking for you as soon as she made it to Ostagar, but you were already in the Wilds.  And, then…well, things went awry.”  _Well, that was an understatement._

“Yes.  I suppose they did.  She was at Ostagar, too?  How…no.  There will be time for that later. You said you knew where Melisande is?”

“We know where she’s going.  Zevran says she intended to go to Weisshaupt, to report to the First Warden.  Since all the ships in the Denerim harbor are out at sea, I thought to head to Amaranthine.  It’s most likely that…”

Fergus shook his head.  “She wouldn’t go to Amaranthine.  Highever has a small port.  And no matter what she’s done, what she’s become…Meli wouldn’t leave Ferelden without checking in on Highever.”

Startled at the nickname, Alistair coughed to cover his surprise.  She’d never told him that her brother used the same petname he’d used.   “Ahem. You’re sure?  We’ll make up the time we’ve lost with the horses, but if we take the wrong road…”

“I’m absolutely sure.  Even if she doesn’t go to the keep, she’ll still…She would want to say goodbye.  To be honest, I’m amazed that she didn’t try to go back before.”

“She tried once.  We made it almost to the borders of the teyrnir when we ran across some news that there was an elvhen clan down by the Brecillian Forest.  It was too important a chance to miss.  I promised her after she killed Howe that we’d go back, as soon as we could. Our mentor, Duncan, was Highever-born.  We were going to make a memorial.”  Alistair closed his eyes briefly, wanting to relive that memory.  One of the first times they had really sat and spoken of things that mattered.

Terrance  came in and waited for his king to acknowledge him.  “Your Majesty, the horses are ready.  Which road will we be taking?”

Alistair glanced back at Fergus who looked damn sure of himself.  Her brother had known her longest and it made sense enough to him.  Meli had told Alistair stories of her family home, of the high bluffs and the forest and the scent of the sea that lingered.  He’d listened to her speak, wrapped around her in the dark.  Fergus was right.  If she could, Melisande would go home.   “We ride for Highever.”


	9. Chapter 9

The trip had gone smoothly, Melisande and Finbar travelling through the misty night and into the dawn.  They’d stopped to rest a few hours before picking up to walk again.  Without wagons and having to find routes that would accommodate their supplies, the journey wasn’t as complicated as their travels across Ferelden had been.  She kept them just off the road and out of the eyes of other travelers.  No reason to leave a trail to follow, though Melisande doubted anyone would bother.  Zevran had often spoken of returning to Antiva, to ensure his freedom.  Leliana had clearly been longing to return to her life of peace and solitude with the Chantry.  Sten would be heading back to Seheron.  With Wynne determined to rebuild the Circle, there was only Shale to consider.  But Shale was her own being, now, and proven to be a reasonable soul.  She would find her own path.

On the second day, Finbar seemed distracted, circling back and chasing scents, slowing their progress.   To make up time, Melisande brought them back to the road and decided to continue into the evening.

Coming across Anora’s camp in the dark sent a shock through Melisande as though she’d caught the edge of one of Morrigan’s spells and she froze on the path, Finbar sniffing around their feet as Melisande surreptitiously watched Anora enter her tent. 

Anora called out to Erlina in a slightly put-upon voice, asking her to bring another pot of tea before she dropped the tent flap, cutting off the light.  Why in the Maker’s Name was the woman…the _queen_ …out here in the middle of nowhere with only a bare guard and living in a tent, of all things?

Melisande straightened from her observation, intending to go and investigate.  Perhaps to ensure that there was proper protection to escort them all back to Denerim, instead of wandering around where any band of stray darkspawn or raiders could come across them when a black thought crossed her mind and made her pull up.

She was dangerous, Anora mac Tir.  With the admiration of the nobles of the Marches.  Of even Empress Celene herself. 

Anora and her intelligence and new coin beauty.  Her mind for a devious manipulation.  Her father’s knack for rallying men to her cause.  If Ali…the king stepped wrong once, Anora would have him tangled in such a web of intention and politics that he might never recover. 

And what would become of Ferelden, then?  And what point everything Melisande had done?

There weren’t enough guards here.  And even if someone saw her, what would they say to the Warden Commander?  Watching the light fail into dusk, Melisande laid a plan as she walked the well-hidden path and followed it to the cliffs.

A ferocious barking and the sound of overturning tables sent the camp into an uproar. 

Anora turned from her perusal of a letter she’d received from the Grand Cleric, earlier in the month, and walked to the tent’s opening, intending to stick her head out and see what was going on only to be startled to look down into the silvery eyes of Melisande Cousland.

"My lady."

"Warden!"

"Please, you must be quiet, Anora.  There are enemies in your camp."  Melisande slipped into the tent flap, crowding the woman back out of the spill of light.

Even alone in her tent after what must have been a breakneck escape, Anora was still every inch the Queen. Her hair was still neatly coiled in its richly golden braided knots. Her travelling clothes were nearly immaculate. Her hands were pale and her oval nails were clean and buffed to a shine.  A credit to her upbringing.  Suddenly, Melisande felt every mile she'd slogged, every festering lie she'd told and heard and every throat she'd slashed must show on her face.  Her hands weren't clean.  What would Bryce Cousland say of his fierce daughter now?

 

Anora was startled nearly beyond speech.  Why in the Maker's Name was Melisande Cousland here?  Surely she should be fighting to save Denerim from the horde?  And where was her father?

 

“We can get out here,” Melisande said, yanking free the secured tent edge from the bottom.  “Hurry, though.  We don't want to draw attention to you.  Your guards will do a better job of defending you if they don’t have to worry about you.  I told them I’d get you away."

 

Balking, Anora tried to look out of the tent flap again.  “I don’t hear anything but dogs.  And where is Erlina?  I certainly can’t leave her…”

 

“I asked her to grab up some supplies, Anora.  My mabari is with her.  He’ll protect her until they can join us.  Come on, before we’re seen.”

 

“I still don’t hear anything that...”

 

“Infiltrators.  They’re very quiet.  The guard is luring them into a trap, though.  They’re very well trained, using the mabari to distract from their intent.”  Melisande put a note of admiration into her voice and smiled inwardly when Anora straightened. 

 

“Well, my father would hardly leave me in the hands of incompetents.”

 

“No.  Loghain struck me as very prudent in your care, outside of allowing you to be held by Howe.”  Anora ducked under the edge of the tent’s canvas and Melisande herded the former queen farther into the woods.  A small skirmish at the edge of camp had drawn the attention of the guards and the movement assured Anora of the truth of Melisande’s assertion and quietly she tiptoed along the nearly invisible path. 

After a few moments, Anora tried to find out more.  “Why are you here?  Should you not be in Denerim, doing a Warden’s duty?  And what of my father?”

 

There was only Melisande’s harsh, “Keep your voice down, I thought I heard something.”

 

Finally around a small bend in the path, Melisande straightened and ushered Anora in front of her, thoughtfully as she checked their rearguard.

 

“The Archdemon is dead, Anora.  Denerim is safe enough.  Your father did his duty and took the final blow.”

 

When Anora looked back at her startled, Melisande recalled that she still wasn’t aware…bloody, sodding secrets.  Ah, well.  They wouldn’t go any farther.  “It requires a Warden to kill the Archdemon, to truly slay it.  But the Warden dies too…it’s a binding of souls.  The taint in our blood keeps the Archdemon from simply inhabiting another host and the Warden’s soul prevents it from escaping...it is foolish and complicated but there it goes.”

 

Astonished, Anora had to close her mouth.  “He’s dead then.”

 

“He died well.  Perhaps someday, that’s all that will be remembered of him.”  There was no reason Melisande couldn’t be magnanimous.  She’d won, after all.  It had gone as she wanted.  Gracious in victory, had always been her mother’s caution.

 

The path dipped into a small depression, and the ground was growing chalky as they reached the bluffs. 

 

“That’s why, isn’t it?  You conscripted my father because you knew.”

 

“Yes.”

 

 “Why didn’t Alistair…”

 

“I found out from my father.  But I had no proof.  And it seemed too awful for him to believe.  So, I did what I had to, to protect my king and his kingdom.”  She’d said it so often, that it was beginning to ring hollow.

 

The queen was quiet for a moment, pushing aside a low-hanging fir branch and letting the fragrant needles slide through her fingers.  The night was still and soft around them, unseasonably warm for the early fall. 

 

“You are sure Erlina will be able to find us?”

 

“Eventually, yes.”  The Warden turned on her then and the blade in her hand and the fixed look in her eyes sent Anora’s blood still in her veins.

 

“Did you hear something?”

 

“No.  We’re well away.  I don’t think we’ll be heard.”  The little remaining light glimmered off of the dagger in Melisande’s gloved hand and Anora backed away, only to find herself at the edge of a bluff, with the Warden blocking her path.

 

“Is…is this about your stay in Fort Drakon?  I explained…I was afraid that they would lock me up again.  I wanted to get away to inform Arl Eamon…”

 

Melisande nodded, calmly.  “I know that.  I don’t blame you.”

 

“I did not know about the betrayal at Ostagar, Melisande.  I didn’t know about Howe or what he did to your family…I admit I want to keep the throne but,...”

 

“I don't think you're a bad person, Anora.  I think you loved your father. I even think you tried to do what is right for Ferelden.  You were a good queen.   Maker, I think we really used to be a lot alike."

 

 

"Then, why...?" Anora indicated the knife.

 

Because he'll be a great king, if he's allowed to get his feet under him.  Unlike Cailan he hasn't soaked in adoration with his mother's milk.  He understands the hardships his people have endured. But, he's...at his heart, a Chantry raised knight.  With all the chivalry that entails.  He'll be lenient with you, the widowed queen.  The traitor's daughter.  You'll get in his way, interfere.  Tell me true, Anora...if you saw him put his foot wrong, would you help him?  Or would you...push?  Twist?  Draw his support to you?"  The queen couldn't help the look of calculation that crossed her face and Melisande smiled.  Eleanor had been a far better teacher, it seemed, when it came to a noble’s veneer of calm.   "You'd try to overthrow him."  

Anora shot her an icy glare.  "Well, if you think he's so vulnerable, maybe I should." 

Melisande scoffed.  "He'll win.  He's tenacious.  But it will be messy and bad for Ferelden's recovery if you fight.  This is better.  A simple solution to what could be a nasty problem.  Just this once, I can clear up a mess before it starts."

“It's not right.  It's not... You're supposed to be a hero.  Heroes don't..."

Nodding, Melisande agreed, "No.  It's not right. Whatever it takes to win, Anora.  That's the, ah, unofficial Grey Warden motto.  I'm bloody effective, though the king made me try harder to be good.   But I was a Cousland first.  I serve Ferelden and I serve my king.  Before I turn completely to the Wardens, I will do this one last thing, for him and our country and stop a rebellion before it begins. 

"Why?!  I promise...I won't..."  Anora was backing away from her, truly afraid, now, moving unwittingly towards the cliff Melisande had reconnoitered earlier. 

 Melisande smiled, just a little sadly.  She was crossing a line here, she knew.  Zevran had told her once, when he'd just started to train with her that there would come a point when she would know.  That one kill would decide who she would be. 

Anora had once seen a wolf brought into Denerim by some lesser noble.  It had trotted tamely at the woman's side for a week, while she told how she'd rescued it from hunters and raised it by hand.  The creature had done tricks, fetching and even bowing to her on command.  And then one day, it had, delicately and neatly, bitten the fool woman's hand clean off when it was denied a bit of freedom.  The wolf had had eyes just like Melisande Cousland.  Did Alistair know, she wondered, what sort of a woman he'd been fighting beside?

"Because I can and I don't want him to have to."  Melisande advanced with a swaying walk.  “Your father died well.  Brave to the end.  Will you, Anora Mac Tir?”

 

Anora was stronger than she looked.  And she was taller than Melisande by nearly three inches.  A year ago, it would have been a more even fight.  But Melisande was...well, she was a killer now, wasn't she?  What a year of slogging across endless countryside and fighting constantly would do to a person.

 

In the end it was a short fast dance.  And a sharp blade against a lovely long neck.  And blood on her hands, again.

 

The body dropped limply off the cliff.  Melisande stood there, looking at the figure sprawled on the rocks below.

 

 It needed to look like an accident.  There mustn't be any chance of this falling back on the king.  She glanced back at the camp where Finbar was guarding the rear approach, recalling a foolish conversation.  "You wouldn't know if it was human flesh," he'd jibed Finbar.  "I'd never feed you people," she'd assured her hound.

 

But that at least wasn't necessary now.  She concentrated, seeking the low buzz just beneath her consciousness.  She'd learned this trick as an adolescent, dallying with an elven boy whose clan used Highever's cliff path as a byway.  Torin had taught her about her first poisons and how to kiss and how to call the wolves.  It had come in handy more than once, an extra companion along the road. 

 

This one was huge, dark and sleek with baleful yellow eyes.  It smiled at Melisande before it ripped the queen's slashed, gaping throat out, hiding the evidence of her own vicious nature.

\---000---

Only Fergus and Zevran had been able to accompany him.  Sten had chosen to remain behind, telling them, “If the Warden has chosen her path, I have no right to challenge it.”

Wynne was still elbow deep in healing, with several patients she was loathe to leave behind so, she too, had stayed in Denerim.  Leliana had been harder to track down, as she had decided to make herself of use to the Revered Mother.  Zevran found her teaching a song to a group of young children and couldn’t bring himself to interrupt her.  She looked so happy.

Not too terribly far behind, Alistair and his small band found Anora’s campsite the next morning.

Terrance saw the king and his company and with a grim pallor approached the horses.  It looked to Alistair as though the guard had aged a decade since he’d been sent to guard Anora.

“Your Majesty, I…” He stood at Alistair’s stirrup, looked up and swallowed.  “I am afraid I have terrible news, sire.  I take full responsibility.”

“For what, Terrance?”  The man’s nervousness was transferring to Alistair’s horse and he had to settle the creature.

The guard set his shoulders before, “Queen Anora is dead, King Alistair.”

“What?!”  Alistair dismounted and behind him, Fergus and Zevran did the same.  “What happened, man?”

“I…I am not sure.  We had a disturbance last night, some wild mabari broke into the camp and when we straightened it out, she was gone.  We tracked her to the edge of the cliffs.  She fell, I think.  When we got to the bottom, it looked as though she might have been attacked.  Maybe one of the mabari or a wolf.  We recovered her body…but there was nothing that could be done.  Your Majesty, I am so…”

Mystified, Alistair glanced into the tent Terrance indicated.  A corpse, well wrapped in white linen was laid out on the cot.  “What made her leave the camp?”

“Your Majesty, please.”  He glanced back and recognized Anora’s maid.  The slight elf was clearly grieving, eyes red and swollen and her Orlesian accent thick with held back tears.  “She would not have left her tent.  She had been insisting all day that we return to Denerim.  But they say there is no sign…come look, please!”

“Zevran?”  The assassin was already walking into the tent, nodding to Erlina as he passed her.  Carefully, he looked around, eyes sharp and assessing. But in a few minutes he turned with a shrug.  “No sign of any struggle I can see, Alistair.  Did you move anything?  Straighten up, perhaps?” 

“No!”  But even Alistair could see that her eyes had cut to the desk and the stack of papers.  He picked up the pile.  Foreign, but he recognized a word here and there.  Orlesian.  “Zev, do you read Orlesian?” 

“It has come in handy.  Ladies of Antiva are fond of the occasional poem.”  He glanced over the sheet.  “Letters from the Divine and other noble folk.  It seems our Queen did not share her father’s distaste for Orlais.  Mostly innocent, I think.  Condolences and offers of sojourn to recover from her grief.”

“Where did you find her?”  Fergus was asking Terrance. 

“Over this way.”  He indicated a narrow trail that ran along and then behind the camp.  “This way leads down to a stream, but this other way heads right to the cliffs.  I don’t know if she got confused or…”

“My lady was never confused, you idiot!”  Erlina snapped and Terrance ducked his head.

The path was narrow and trampled, where booted feet had run that was left of Anora’s trail.  Branches grabbed at their clothes, but so many had been broken by the searchers that there was no way to tell if the queen had been running, had felt threatened. 

Not far from the edge of the cliff, there was one deeper, scuffed footprint, as if she had stopped for a time and further on, a scrabbled place that could have been a fight or just where Anora had struggled to not fall.  A ledge about thirty feet below was dark with blood in the clear morning light.

“There were paw prints around the queen’s body and…she had been…I failed her and you, Your Majesty. I can never…”

Alistair shook his head.  “It was an accident, guardsman.  It…you can’t be held responsible for someone taking it into their head to wander away from camp in unfamiliar territory.  Anora didn’t strike me as that foolish, but…” Erlina choked out a protest, but when they turned to go she followed the men back to the camp with only a few glances back.

After they searched the camp and found nothing to indicate why Anora had left her tent, Alistair ordered them to break camp and to take Anora’s body back to the city.  They watched as the small party, Anora’s horse dragging a travois covered in a coverlet woven in a pattern of lilies,  set back down the road before mounting and taking the turning to Highever.

 


	10. Chapter 10

Melisande paused when she reached the crossroads.  This section of the road seemed familiar, though she hadn't passed this way in over two years.  There was a holly thicket to one side, the prickles studded with blood red berries. 

Just over that rise and another mile to where the land rolled smoothly down to chanter's creek and she'd be in Highever's teyrnir. 

Home. 

Finbar yipped and stepped forward with a fresh will as though he found a familiar scent in the air.  She followed in his wake.

They were climbing the rise when she felt it, that prickle along the back of her skull that forewarned.  Darkspawn. Not many...but still.  She pulled shadows around her. With any luck they hadn't noticed her.

Melisande was picking her way back down behind her sure footed friend when the clash of steel and evil, shuddering laughter floated towards them.  A fight then.  Grimacing, she tugged her hood around her face and crept closer.

 

It was a refugee group, just a few families, perhaps, and what they could throw into a cart and a small wagon.  They were fighting, though, not huddling and the three scouting 'spawn were meeting a match.  Three men and two women...one standing on the seat of the wagon with a shortbow, doing her best to keep the tainted creatures away from the wagon where an old woman was corralling the children.  One little girl, with a tumble of cornsilk curls, was holding a fire poker.  Valiant little thing.

They looked to have it under control.  There was a genlock fallen and another clearly injured and...ah, there.  The archer had made a fine shot through its eye.  In all honesty, Melisande had no interest in being seen and...well, she was somewhat distinctive.  She turned away from the fight.

Finbar was creeping forward through the brush, growling low in his chest.  Melisande's turn startled the hound and he looked back over his shoulder to see her with an inquisitive look.  

"They've got it, Fin.  Let's go."

He whined then clearly bewildered.  In the year since they had left Highever, they had never turned from a fight before.

"No.  Leave it.  There’s only one more, they'll be fine.  I want to make Highever by dark."  

 

He sat, then.  Obstinately, with the most disapproving look she'd ever gotten from her faithful hound.  

 

"You're welcome to go help.  I'm not..."  There was a shriek, a terrified child, and then a horrendous crash as one of the carts...a baby squalling...oh, Maker...

 

Melisande drew her sword and one of her parrying blades and crashed through the brush, feeling a crawling sensation up her spine as a whole troop of darkspawn spilled into the clearing.  Blast and damnation.  She concentrated for a moment and within a few steps a slim, grey wolf had joined them, slinking close to the ground.  The noise of the fight covered her own and she was able to get around the back of the emissary without any detection.  She slipped the magebane coated knife between the straps of its tattered robe and when it turned to slap her away, jammed the sword into its gut.  

 

 She let her shadows spill away and mockingly called out a challenge.  Howling, the creatures turned away from the easier prey to the Grey Warden who had popped up in their midst, like a spirit. Finbar took up his own howl, staggering the front runners and then bowling them over with a charge as the wolf went for the nearest genlock's throat.  

 

It was what she hoped for, allowing the travelers to regroup and come in behind.  No sign of the archer and Melisande wondered as she took out a rogue genlock, whether the woman had jumped free of the cart in time. 

 

She was fast and they were desperate and it was a lethal enough combination.  In less time than she'd expected, Melisande was wiping her blades clean on the grass.  "Don't touch them.  I'll drag them into a pile and we can set them alight."  She said to one of the men who came to speak to her as the others righted the wagon and checked on the children.  Even the baby was fine, Melisande noted, gratefully.  The old woman had curled around it just in time and braced herself against a basket full of woolens to cushion the impact.  She was bruised, but alive.

 

"Ser, thank you!  They came out of nowhere, just sprang up from the ground itself."

 

"Yes, they do that."

 

"You came just in time.  Oh, you’re injured, let me…”

 

Melisande daubed at the cut across her eyebrow.  “It’s fine, I’m alright.”

 

The man shook his head.  “No, ser.  These things, the cuts fester and…you don’t want to leave it.  Never ends well.  We’re from South Reach…it’s…it was bad.”

 

“No, really…”  But he was already turning to get his kit when another of the travelers cried out in pain before collapsing to the ground.’

 

“Oh, Wilf!”  The archer, limping but well enough dropped down beside the man.

 

Melisande could see a dark patch on his neck, starting to spread and his dark eyes had already taken on the sunken, glassy look of a victim of the taint.  “I’m sorry…but…”

 

“It’s got him, doesn’t it?”  The woman looked up at her, tears sheening in her green eyes.

 

“I’m sorry, Nattie.  I…”  Wilf broke off into one of the wet coughs.  “I caught one of their blades.” 

 

Melisande swallowed before she spoke.  “I am sorry, Nattie.”

 

“No.  It’s not…”  The man set a consoling hand on hers, where it was clutching his coat.  “We’re…Wilf, I’m pregnant!  Please!”

 

“I’m glad to know it.  Hope it’s a pretty little girl, just like you, with a voice like a thrush and an eye like a hawk.  Don’t take it bad, love.  It’ll be alright.”  He looked up at Melisande with a twisted grin on his sweating, still handsome face.  Not long, though, until the taint would change that.   “Don’t make my brother do it, m’lady.  Would you…”  Nattie sobbed.  “You know…what’ll happen, love.  Don’t make me suffer it.”

 

“I can.  If that’s what you want.”  Melisande agreed, but she waited until Nattie kissed her lover and the other woman came over to console her sister-in-law, one arm tight around her while Nattie clutched Wilf’s hand.  The two looked into each other’s eyes, while Melisande slid her sharpest slimmest blade into his heart and twisted.  She’d poisoned the blade with a toxin that would work so fast…yes, between one breath and the next he was gone.  She hoped it was as painless as it looked.

They lit a separate pyre for Wilf and a few words were spoken.   Afterwards, the travelers made camp over the rise to allow everyone time to rest and insisted that Melisande stay with them to share their meal.  The little blonde girl, Betta, was shadowing her  and clinging to Finbar and Melisande didn’t have the heart to push the child away.

After the children were settled, Finbar settled at their feet, protectively, she found herself alone by the fire sipping at a mug of tea that Nattie’s mother had pressed on her. Melisande watched Nattie help with the two girls, and then they’d sat under the wagon to comb out their hair, before crawling into the bedrolls.  It reminded Melisande of the evenings that her own mother would come to her room and offer to comb her hair, listening and talking of little things, sharing bits of motherly advice. 

Absently, she fingered her own cropped locks, starting to curl now.  It was an amazingly practical haircut, if nothing else. 

She hadn’t cut it because of Highever tradition, though it had occurred to her later. Grief, oh, grief was appropriate. No. She closed her eyes to resist the memory. Camp and a fireside, finally, after a long fight, then a slog through the rain.

She’d bound her hair up in a long braid after Flemeth had rescued them. Except to wash it or comb it out with the rough wooden comb she’d picked up from a refugee woman in Lothering, she never touched it. And now there were these long wet days, when it chafed her neck and weighed her down, in a tangled sodden mess.

It had been after they’d picked up Zev, but before they’d ventured into the woods, looking for elves like children in a tale. She’d been exhausted and starving. The nest of genlocks they’d stumbled into (and despite being able to sense the Maker-doomed things, they always seemed to stumble upon them), had fought long and hard. One of them had managed to get a hand on the length of hair and tugged her backwards and only the twist of her spine had kept her from impalement on a jagged sword. It died with her dagger through its eye, but she’d been shaking from the close call.

She’d sat down at the campfire. They hadn’t found a stream, just an old well, so baths had been out. She just meant to untwist the copper wire and unlace the braid to comb it out to dry. Instead of the comb, though, she’d pulled her belt knife. Why was she even keeping it, all this hair? That life, that she’d worn elaborate braids and ribbons for, flowers and jeweled pins? It was gone. Even if they managed not to die, and at that point Melisande had been sure death was still waiting for her around every corner. She was a Warden, now, not a noblewoman. She was proud of it, it had been something she wanted when all she was, was a light-footed sneak with a knack for finding a weak point. But it wasn’t a life for balls and ribbons. No noble son was ever going to follow her down a hall, hoping to see her pull her pins and let the scented masses of red-gold hair fall over her shoulders and down her back invitingly.

She’d pulled the braid tight and slipped the knife underneath and just as she was about to draw the sharp blade through…

“What’re you doing?”

Melisande had turned to find Alistair staring at her, his polishing kit forgotten in his hands. From the look on his face, she’d wondered if it looked like she was about to slit her own throat. He’d dropped his kit, then. He’d knelt down at her feet and pulled her braid from her unresisting hand. “Oh, please, Meli,” he’d said in a whisper like he was in Chantry. “Please don’t.”

It had been the first of a lot of things.

The first time he’d shortened her name, outside of battle. The first time she’d heard that husky, pleading tone in his voice. The first time he’d touched her outside of helping her with her equipment or to deal with an injury or to slap her across the shoulders like a comrade.

 

The first time the thought had occurred to Melisande that if Alistair Theirin would just keep looking at her _that_ way, with those gold flecked, honey warm hazel eyes, she’d never care about any other noble son, ever again.

He’d taken the knife from her nerveless fingers, the easiest disarm he’d probably ever performed. He told her later while wrapped in her arms in the dark, that seeing her, sitting by the fire combing out her freshly washed hair was just about the highlight of his week, at that point. He’d wanted to tell her then, but he couldn’t get the words, so he’d just picked up the comb and given it to her instead, the blush stealing up his neck and just about to turn his ears bright red.

Zev had come back to the fire, then, to sharpen his blades in company. Alistair picked up his gear and sat down to work, studiously not glancing at her. Melisande had worked the binding wire out of her braid and set to work combing out the tangles, like she’d never had any other intention.

She’d remembered then, the tiny portrait of her mother, done just after the war. It sat on her father’s desk and she’d recalled her mother laughing, saying she’d forgotten how to lace a dress she wore leathers so long. Her mother’s chestnut hair had been painted in a braided coronet that wrapped her head. Leliana had nodded when she asked and between the two of them, they’d twisted her hair up into that same style, high and tight.

They’d found a better campsite the next night, with a nice oxbow stream and a tiny bit of seclusion. Alistair had given her the rose he’d had Sandal enchant back after Lothering.

They'd courted sweetly. Gently, even. Amusing, considering their circumstances. He was so...fresh to it all. Not unworldly, no, after all he'd grown up in a stable and among other men. He'd absorbed the ideas, anyway. But with a regard for her, a reverence. Kisses gradually turning from charming and awkward to heated. One sparring match that had quickly lost all pretense when she'd tried to distract him with her charms.  Zevran had been properly apologetic later, for interrupting them at an inopportune moment. 

But then came Haven. Then came the Gauntlet and the Guardian's questions and the shade of her father. 

Then came Melisande, sobbing in Alistair’s arms later in camp as she told him about that awful night. About her father's life blood spilling on to the stone flagged floor in a gushing, stinking wave. Her mother, brave and defiant and suddenly very small as Melisande backed away, cruelly free from being the teyrn's daughter at last, into the life she'd always wanted.

He'd held her, whispering nonsense and sweetness in her ear until his reaction to her cuddled in his lap made itself known and he'd tried to pull away, embarrassed.  "Maker, I'm sorry.  I'll go…I..."

"Don't.  Don't let go, Alistair.  Stay with me, please."  And she'd kissed the racing pulse in his tanned throat.  He’d swallowed hard and nodded. 

 

“Alright.  Yes, if you want…I want to…  If you’re sure.” 

“Stay with me.”  She’d repeated it and he’d touched her face with that look of surprised awe that never failed to humble her. 

Then Alistair had turned that unyielding tenacity she’d never seen off the battlefield until then to her, to unbraiding her hair and, though he’d been the innocent, she’d been the one trembling before he’d touched an inch of her bare skin. 

“M’lady?”

Melisande jerked back to the present, blinking rapidly.  “Yes, Jacen?” 

Wilf’s brother smiled, a little unsure.  “It didn’t look like a good memory, m’lady.”  He turned to stir the fire. 

“It’s just Melisande.” 

“Yeah?  All right.”  He sat the newly filled kettle to the side of the cookfire on a flat stone, where it would stay hot, but not boil away in the night, with any luck.  “We owe you our lives, m…Melisande.  I can never…” he glanced at the little band, all tucked in for the night.  “My whole world right here, you know.  All I’ve got left are these folks.”

She indicated that he was welcome to sit with her on the rough log they’d dragged up and he didn’t quite collapse, wearily.  “You’re from the South Reaches?”

Nodding, he took up his own tin cup and sipped his tea.  “Yeah.  We’d thought to take ship at Denerim, but the cost of all of us…we couldn’t manage.”

Curious, she couldn’t help but ask, “Where were you looking to go?”

“The Free Marches…got word some cousins are doing okay up in Kirkwall.  Found work in the mines up there.  I’m a farmer, but…I could mine, too, I guess.”

“You’d leave Ferelden?”

Jacen shrugged.  “Can’t fight the Blight, no matter how hard we try.”

 _Oh, they didn’t know._   “But…the Blight’s over.  We…the Wardens killed the Archdemon and the hordes should already be scattering back to the Deep Roads.”

His eyes were wide in the firelight.  “When?  When did this happen?”

Over the cup, she couldn’t help but smile at the man, the hope in his eyes.  “Three days ago, give or take.”

The thankful prayer was whispered like it might not be true if he said it too loudly, “Maker be praised.”  Jacen offered his cup and they clanked their tea together, in a toast.  “Maker bless them, them Wardens.  Andraste guide their steps.  You came from there?”

“I was through there, yes.”

“Maker’s Balls.  It’s over.”  Slapping his hand on his knee, the lean brown man couldn’t seem to stop grinning, showing off quite nice teeth, actually, and it triggered Melisande’s own grin. 

“Yes, ser!”  Because it _was_.  No matter what else, the Blight was over and Jacen and Nattie and Betta could find their places again and all the others and Ferelden could rebuild.  The whole reason she and the rest of her own companions had bled and fought and starved, sitting right here at this campfire and tucked safely in their beds for the night.  Not unscathed, not without hardship to come and probably nightmares for the rest of their lives.  But the Blight was over.  Melisande echoed Jacen’s words.  “Maker be praised.”

He was a farmer, hmm?  She looked at his hands, capable and strong.  He had a broad back and a certain sort of determination underneath the sudden joyful shock and the long day written across his foxish features.  Melisande swallowed off the rest of her tea.  “You know, we aren’t far from Highever.  I know some folks there.  You might get set up in something more like to what you’re used to, if you don’t have your heart set on seeing the Marches.”


	11. Chapter 11

The keep looked relatively normal when they approached Highever from the south.  The farmholds that dotted the surrounding fields were bustling as they should this time of year, crops going in now that the ground had thawed.  Smoke billowed out of chimneys into the cool air.  Washing up on the line.  _Must be Tuesday,_ Melisande thought.  The housewives of Highever always did their washing on Tuesdays, for whatever reason. 

But it was with some trepidation that Melisande directed Jacen’s family down the main path.  There were guards on the gate.  But she couldn’t see the crest on their shields. 

It took another bend in the road to bring her close enough to see…laurel wreaths.  _Oh, Maker.  Cousland laurels.  But how?_   It took all her willpower not to storm up to the nearest guard and beg for news, but she picked up her pace, leaving the travelers a bit behind.

“My lady?  Lady Melisande?”  A vaguely familiar, utterly disbelieving voice called out from the guardpost. 

She recognized this man’s face, but couldn’t place the name.  “I’m Melisande Cousland but….”

“Byron Terrys, m’lady!  Mattew’s son.”  Mattew had been her father’s seneschal until he’d retired three years ago.  This man, in his late forties, shared his barrel-chested figure and the dark blonde hair.

Clasping his arm in greeting, Melisande shook it, heartily.  “His youngest.  Byron, how in the Maker’s Name…?  How did you know Bann Howe was dead?”

“News came up…a month or so ago?  They said…they said you did it, m’lady.”  He searched her face and saw the truth there and smiled with satisfaction.  “Knew it.  Knew you Couslands wouldn’t let it stand.  The teyrn said you must have raised yourself an army and then we heard you’d made a Warden.”  He cast an assessing eye over her.  “You’ve done your folks proud, Lady Melisande.”

But Melisande was focused on his earlier words.  “The…the teyrn?  Who?  One of Howe’s boys?  Thomas?”  Nathaniel, she recalled, had been sent to the Free Marches to foster and get some of his wild oats out of the way.  Thomas had always liked her, maybe…

But Byron was shaking his head.  “Howe?  Andraste forbid.  No, m’lady.  Teyrn Fergus.  Your brother.”

And Melisande was always damned proud of herself later for not fainting dead away at that.  As it was, it was a near thing and Byron grabbed her arm as she swayed.

“Tell me…tell me _everything_ , please.”   

\---000---

It probably should have surprised Melisande to see Fergus riding up the path and Alistair and Zev not far behind him.  But she felt honestly past surprises. 

Nan had been in her kitchen and had set her former charge in front of a giant plate of muffins and a pot of tea to fill in until a proper supper after bemoaning the loss of Melisande’s hair.  The old woman, thin as a rail and bearing an ugly red scar that reached up from the bodice of her dress to curl nearly around her neck, had survived the initial onslaught, dragged the bodies of Bryce and Eleanor into the secret passage to hide them and had tried to make it farther when she’d been caught by a patrol. 

Nan had lived though, crawled her way to a nearby cottage and the folk there had hidden her away until Fergus had stumbled in one day, six months ago. Howe had nearly abandoned Highever at that point, too busy with the civil war and his own poison as he’d made a move on the Arl of Denerim’s holdings.

If the former nurse had been startled by the way the youngest Cousland, never a demonstrative girl, fell on her neck, she kept it to herself.  Any fool could see the child had been through the wringer and needed a little indulging.  “’All right.”  She patted Melisande’s shoulders.  “Come on now, a few muffins and some of the pork that’s almost ready and you won’t recognize yourself.” At Finbar’s agreeable bark, Nan sighed.  “You too.  But you have to make due with trimmings.”  She fed the hound a small smoked fish to tide him over.

When the announcement of the Teyrn’s arrival came, Nan only tsked.  “See, there’s a lad who knows when to make an arrival, right at supper time.  You should wash up, child.”

Dazed, Melisande could only follow orders.                                         

Less than an hour later, Melisande was staring at Fergus, standing in the Great Hall, big and smelly and beautiful as life.  “Maker, big brother.  You look like someone dragged you through a hedge, arse first.”

He shook his head with a small smile.  “And you’ve seen a mirror recently, I suppose?  All ready for the Satinalia Ball?”  He caught her, all leather armor and wet eyes, when she launched herself at him.  “Oh, Holy Beloved, baby sister.  I missed you.”  They clung to each other for a few minutes and the Keep stopped around them.  Mindful of subtle things, Zevran tugged at Alistair’s elbow and the two companions stepped out of the chamber, Alistair glancing back at Melisande, and the way she’d collapsed against the teyrn.

She was babbling, in a whisper. “I’m so sorry.  Fergus, I am so, so sorry.  I…”

“What could you have done, Meli?  It was an ambush.”  He brushed a tear away from her face before blowing his nose musically in his kerchief.  “Howe was a traitor and a coward and you finished him.  You did what you could.”

“But…Oren.  Oriana.  Fergus…Mother and Father…”

“I know.  But they’re at the Maker’s side. C’mon now, I want to hear it all.  Those two have been telling some things fit for tales.  Trust you to find a king and an elvhen assassin tucked in among the heather.”

“A golem and a couple of mages and a singing Chantry sister who can cut a throat faster than I can, too.”

Alistair and Zevran had made themselves scarce as the siblings reunited, but once they’d shifted into chairs to tell stories, the two companions drifted back to the sitting area laid out before the huge fireplace in the Hall. 

There were still dark patches on the light flagstones that floored the room.  Bloodstains. Melisande wondered, in a moment of quiet, which had belonged to Rory Gilmore.

Dragging herself up from the armchair, Melisande stood to greet Alistair.  “Your Majesty.”  She even managed a reasonably graceful curtsey before he grabbed her arm. 

“Don’t.  Don’t do that.  Please.”

“If you like, sire.”  Her voice was stiffly formal and even though she tried to make it otherwise, Melisande couldn’t manage to shift the weight from her tongue.  She hid it by giving Zevran a hug and if she missed the bleak despair on the king’s face, her brother did not. 

Alistair tried to recover, taking the leather armchair that Fergus offered. 

Zevran lazed on the bench beside her chair.  “You left without leaving a message, Melisande, and so we have traipsed all over the countryside, hither and yon to find you.”

Puzzled, she shook herself.  “I told you, though.  I’m headed for Weisshaupt as soon as I can arrange passage.  I need to make some report to the First Warden, I expect.”

“I sent a short report, just before we left.”  Alistair explained, softly as he glanced at her and then away.  Not sure exactly how to approach her when she was so cool.

Oh, Maker.  I need to leave.  Now.  Melisande covered her panic by turning slightly away before she answered. “Thank you, Your Majesty.  I imagine it needs to come from an active Warden who witnessed the event.”

It took him a minute to realize that she didn’t know.  ’I came back.  Meli, I _was_ there.  I saw Loghain...take the blow.” 

Confusion bloomed across her face.  “I…didn’t.  I don’t remember that.”

“It is true.  You should have seen him charge the gate.  Quite heroic and manly.”  Zevran assured her and Alistair managed not to blush.

Dinner was announced, interrupting them.

They were seated at the small wooden table in the small, warm room not too far off the kitchen that had often served the family as a private place to share small, in-between meals.

As they ate, Melisande was told of Anora’s death.  Zevran caught the way her fingers clenched down on the table knife she was holding and with a swallowed oath, subtly drew her attention so that he could see her eyes.  _Ah.  That was a pity_ , he thought.  She was not made to be an assassin, no matter how well she could throw a knife or slit a throat.  But what to do about it?

After dinner they were shown to rooms to freshen up.  Melisande found herself tucked safely in her old room, though most of her personal things were gone.  On one shelf of her armoire laid the small collection of elvhen arrowheads she’d collected avidly.  When Finbar barked behind her, she only had a minute to tuck away the tiny homemade book of poetry she’d kept in the rope lacings of her bedframe before Zevran ducked in, quietly.

“Zev, I…”  He held a hand up to silence her and paced the woven rug before her for a few minutes.  She watched him from behind a wooden chair, eyebrows raised until he turned on her, a true frown crossing his delicately handsome face.

“You should not have done it, my dear Warden.”

“Why not?”  She didn’t even pretend to not know what he meant but his disapproval baffled her.

With one of his shrugs, he strode back across the room. “Because this was too personal. You had money in the pot.”

“That is _not_ why I did it, damn your eyes, Zev!  I did it to keep her from being a _threat_ to him.  She was dangerous!”  Melisande had to brace herself, hands clasped tightly over the worn back of the chair, ridges in the woodgrain rough under her fingertips, before she asked.  “Does he know?”

“No.”  And he watched her deflate, taking her hand in a soft grasp.  “I will not be the one to tell him.  But, please, Melisande, do not do this again.  It’s not in you.  I would regret meeting you, if I knew that you were becoming…too like me.  And it would have been a terrible crime for us to not have met.”  The wicked grin flashed on his face and it drew a half-smile from her.

Zevran patted her cheek, fondly, before he loosed her hand and went to the door.  Melisande’s question came so quietly that he almost ignored it.

“Did he really come to Fort Drakon?”  He turned to look at the Warden,  half in shadow since the brazier threw little light.  But there was something almost of hope in her face.  No.  She would never make an assassin. 

And he could not ignore her question.  She should know.  “He did.  Wynne told me he was a handsbreadth away from killing the Archdemon himself, if she hadn’t stopped you.  And too, he carried you, unconscious from the rooftop and tended your lovely, exhausted self.”   Zevran had been teasing for a moment, but his tone turned quite serious, suddenly.  All with the eyes of a tortured man.  Do not take his being here lightly, inamorata.  He defied his uncle with no hesitation.”

“Thanks, Zev.”  Her words followed him out of the door.

When Alistair tried to find her an hour or so after supper, Melisande was gone again. 

Fergus was able to direct him this time, too, pointing the king to the wooded bluffs overlooking the keep where the fading sunlight was turning the branches of the bare trees golden. “She always used to go up there when she was feeling moony.  Like as not, that’s where you’ll find her.”

 

 

 

Wearily, he followed the path up.  All the time wondering what he could say. The trail took a hard bend, only to reveal her, silhouetted in the pale early spring sunset.

 Melisande was seated on a slab of dark sandstone worn down into a comfortable divot, arms wrapped around her knees, delicate chin balanced atop.  Her hair was askew, the roughly cut locks starting to curl as they grew out again.  She looked…tired and ragged, careworn.  There was a new red scar along the outer edge of her eye. 

Too young to be so tired.  She’d only been 20 on her last name day, Alistair thought.  Younger even, than him.  Not even old enough to be of age, yet.  And still she’d borne the whole of Ferelden on her shoulders.  She’d never complained about it.  Just at first, when she’d expected him to direct them.  And with a certain disapproval in her eyes, she’d picked up the reins and steered them to victory.  

 

Finbar whined when he approached standing from his vigil over his mistress and nudged Alistair’s hand for an ear scratch.  Alistair obliged him as he considered her.

 

 _Well, nothing like humor.  Always worked before_.  “Here you are.  I thought you were done playing rabbit, that I wouldn’t have to keep running after you, like a hound.”  He tried to keep his tone jocular, but the small joke faded to nothing between them as her eyes stayed fixed on the horizon.

 

“I don’t know what I expected.  Coming here, I mean.   I…Maker, maybe I wanted it to just be a bad dream.  That I’d walk into the hall and Mother would scold me for missing dinner and Father would sneak me an apple turnover and …” Her voice choked off, but before he could comfort her, she shook herself.  “Fergus is alive.  Maybe I’m not grateful enough for the miracle I was handed.

“Meli, I…I know why…about Loghain.”

“I told you why.”

Alistair nodded but tried again.  “I found some of Duncan’s old journals.  He...laid it out.  That’s why I tried to come, tried to help.”

“Oh.”  She blinked wide eyes at him.  “I…”

“I’m sorry I doubted you.”  He wanted desperately to sit beside her or to pull her up to stand by him, but couldn’t manage to figure out what to do if she wouldn’t allow it.  So, awkwardly, he simply stood a few feet away, scuffing his boot against the tufted dusty green grass that was sprouting in a crack in the stone. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shuffling and bit back a scold.  No way to treat such fine boots. 

“I’m still going to the Anderfels.”  In a rush, Melisande felt the words leaving her mouth.  He would wonder why, though, so…“I killed her.  Anora.  You should know that."  She said it gravely, as it was a grave matter.  Melisande had considered keeping it a secret.  From what Zevran said, Alistair had no suspicion that Anora’s death was anything but an accident.  But he deserved the truth.  He had to know why she couldn’t stay, even if he’d forgiven her for Loghain.

 

Alistair stared at her for a moment, all his movement arrested.  "In the Maker's name...  _Why_?!" Trying desperately to think of a reason that would excuse it...surely Anora must have attacked her or threatened...but how could Anora have even..." _Why_?"

 

"To secure your throne, Your Majesty."  Those damned icy eyes of hers, that bloody set chin.  And everything that was really her, that was Meli and not the Warden, locked up behind that Maker forsaken smooth noble mask.  "There was a danger that she could rally a rebelli..."

 

“For me?”  She had no right to lay this at his feet.  "Stop it.  You..." 

 

She was up and nearly vibrating with her own tension.  “No!  Not for you.  For Ferelden!  Anora would have sat sweet as a grass snake until there was a chink in your armor and then she’d have turned on you like a viper!  The whole bloody country would be torn again between you and it would take nothing for enemies to come in and pick up the pieces.”  She heaved in a breath before continuing.  “I could not take the chance, Your Majesty.”

 

Alistair bowed his head for a moment and when he looked up Melisande was startled at the bright, hot anger on his face and the snarl on his lips. 

 

"Stop!  Do NOT call me that unless you believe it.  Do you?"

 

What?  "Of course I…"

 

"Then it was not your place to make such a decision."  He was so...upright in his bright armor.  His eyes nearly blazed with his fury and it took her aback.  "This was not a Warden's concern.  You had no authority, Lady Cousland, to make such a decision on your own, without consulting your king."

 

"I...”  He’d told her more than once, that Grey Wardens were not heroes.  But he was.  He’d always been. 

 

"Loghain was...as Warden Commander, that was your right.  To make him a Warden.  Whether I agreed with it or not...but this...Damn it all, Melisande..."  He shut his eyes.  "I should have you arrested.  It's...Maker.  You should be hung."

 

And maybe that was the answer.  Unable to die with the demon, maybe she’d been meant to do that one last service for Ferelden.  Swallowing, Melisande nodded.  "That is of course, your decision."  She reached up and unbuckled the crossed scabbard belts.  The dagger and sword clattered to the ground in a heap of tangled straps and metal at her feet. 

 

Alistair stared, shocked.  He’d never seen her treat her weaponry so carelessly. 

 

"I won't fight it.  I’ll come quietly."

 

She was looking away from him now, gazing back across the lands her family had ruled for centuries.  Longer than his had been kings.  Back over the bluffs that overlooked the keep.  The new tomb, hastily built to hold all the ashes the Highever folk could recover from the massacre, looked like a decorative berm from here.  Moss and stone covered the artificial hill.  

 

 "If I can request it, Your Majesty...if my ashes could be brought back here?"  And there was a part of her that wished she'd never left. Wished Duncan had picked some other place to visit that night.  

 

The quiet question struck him like a lance.  Still.  After all she had accomplished, she yet clung to the guilt.  He'd thought she'd gotten past it...but, no.  He'd left her alone and she'd pulled it back over her in a smothering blanket.  "I can't..."

 

"I see." Oh, Maker, did she not deserve that even, in his eyes? 

 

"No...Meli, I'm not going to hang you.”  She looked at him again and, oh there she was.  The mask had slipped and there was the shy, heartbroken woman who wore it so well.  Almost all of his anger fled with it. 

 

"There's a ship leaving.  I'll be on it.  I'll go to Weisshaupt and I won’t come back.  Is exile enough?"  Oh…but to never see Highever again?  To never see him.  No.  It was right. 

 

Alistair felt as if the bluff he was standing on had lurched beneath his feet.  "You'd leave Ferelden forever?"  

 

"I ...killed her.  There have to be consequences, I know that.  What better way than...."

 

"Is that why?   Is.. is that why you left? To exile yourself?"  And perhaps why she'd killed Anora.  To have something to force his hand.  "You saved Ferelden, Melisande.  There were casualties.  And no...Maker, you shouldn't have killed her but...Why in Andraste's name do you think I would punish you?  I couldn’t…even if…"

 

She looked back at him evenly, her voice back under her own control.  "I betrayed your trust.  You only ever asked one thing of me, the right to see Loghain dead, and to save myself, I refused it.  Why wouldn't you?"

 

Alistair shook his head, closing his eyes for just a minute.  "If you'd done it to save yourself, I might.  But I was _there_.  I saw you trying to...you did it for me."

 

Melisande couldn’t deny it, this time.  "I'm the one who always walks away clean.  I never bear any brunt.  This time...it should have been me.  It would have been better."

 

"Meli..." He laid his hand on her arm, a hair away the patch of scarring left from a dragon fire burn, taken when she’d stepped in front of him when he’d stumbled fighting the false Andraste.  "You always bear it.  You carry it all, even the things that are not your fault.”

 

Softly, with her chin firm and her eyes steady she looked up at him.   “A Cousland does her duty.  That’s my place.  To bear the responsibility.” 

 

He couldn’t help a small smile.  That was one of the reasons he needed her.  Born a noble, raised to understand the nuances of what was owed her people.  But…“Was it all just duty?”

 

Melisande looked up into his eyes, sweetly hazel and worried.  Oh, she’d missed him.   Missed the way he felt beside her, solid as stone.  “No.”  she whispered.  “No, of course not.”

 

He drew himself up trying to make himself as kingly as he could manage. “Ferelden needs you.   _I_  need you.”

 

“You don’t.  You’ll be fine.”  When he looked like he might argue with her, she shook her head.  “Look at what I’ve done!  How could I be of any use to you?”

 

Honesty.  It was all he could give her.  He’d never managed to be manipulative.  “No.  No, I won’t be fine.  I can….I think I can do this.  But, I’ll hate it.  I’ll hate every minute if you aren’t…Meli, please.  Don’t make me do it alone.”

 

She’d pulled away but tired, Melisande leaned against one of the boulders exposed by wind and weather.  “You have advisors…Eamon and Teagan.  There are others.  Fergus knows the nobility, if you can bear his humor.  Bann Alfstana.   She’s a little blunt…but, she has a good head on her shoulders, a good heart.  She should be invited to…”

 

Following, Alistair argued.  “I don’t want advisors.  I need  _you_.  You know me.  You know where I lack…where I’m not ready.  Ferelden needs you, more than that.  We have to rebuild.  Do you not think all of that will be easier if the Warden Commander and the King stand together?  The darkspawn aren’t going to just…disappear.  There’s still…you can’t leave.  I command it.”  And it was a soft mockery of the old, slightly childish Alistair he’d left behind.

 

She was very still for a minute and then she huffed a laugh, just a shadow of her old chuckle.  But…that was how they had started, Alistair recalled.  With her grieving and him making her laugh.  Maybe this wasn’t the end.  “The king has no authority over the wardens.  You know that.”

 

“Maybe…but..please?”

 

“So persistent.”  She sighed.  “I…don’t know if I can stay.  If it ever comes to light that I was the one who killed Anora, it would damage your authority.”

 

“No, it won’t.”

 

“You can’t just...”

“I’m the king.  If someone questions it, I’ll make them believe I ordered it.”  Not laughing now, he meant it.  He could order an execution and in all honesty, he did not think the nobles, tired as they were of fighting and scrambling to rebuild, would object.  It was a failing, he thought, that he was not more grieved over Anora.  But grieving would not bring her back.

“You will not!  Alistair…”  Melisande covered her mouth with her hand.  It was the first time she’d said his name in nearly two weeks.  He didn’t know that, though and bulled forward.

 

“But I’m _not_ just the king.  And you aren’t _just_ a warden.  Maker knows, I have regretted not being there nearly every minute since you left Denerim.  Can we not…just _try_?  Go back to before and stand shoulder to shoulder?”

“For Ferelden?”

  _No.  Just for us_.  He almost said it, too, but Alistair could see the distance still between them.  Duty would bring her back where her heart wouldn’t, yet.  Patience, then.  “Come back to Denerim, Meli.  Let’s celebrate the end of the Blight.  For Ferelden.”  Hesitating he added, “You…you have to promise me something.  Swear to me, Cousland to Theirin.”

He’d squared his shoulders.  The dying light of the setting sun gleamed off of his armor and Melisande closed her eyes against the spell of it.  Her knight, shining.  “What’s that, then, oh king?”

“Never again.  Melisande…you have to swear you’ll never again kill someone who isn’t intent on killing you…or one of your companions.”  If she made such an oath, she’d keep it. Especially if he made her swear on her name, here.  “I may, someday, have to order you…or in service as a Warden…but, I don’t need an enforcer.  Until then, I need your vow, Lady Cousland.” 

“I don’t know that I can promise that.”  She wouldn’t lie to him again, but there was too much at stake.  And she couldn’t know what lay in her future as a Warden.

“Can you promise to try, then?”  He made his voice grave.  If there was any chance that she thought to make this a regular occurrence, killing off any perceived threat to him on whims, then he would have to reconsider.  But this was Melisande.  He had seen her make poor choices and strive to make them right.   And no matter what, he didn’t believe she was a murderer. 

With her head tilted and ragged bangs obscuring her eyes, Melisande considered him for a moment.  It felt like an eternity before she nodded.  “I can do that.”

Alistair held his hand out and she took it for a moment, but she dropped it as soon as they gained the trail.   They left the loneliness of the sheltered bluff and walked silently into sight of the Keep. 

 


	12. Chapter 12

The ride back to Denerim was solemn.  Fergus stayed behind to mind the rebuilding.  To Melisande, it felt like tearing herself in two to see him, tall and nearly the same build as her father, when he turned back from the arched gateway to get back to putting Highever back to rights. 

The night before, Melisande had handed over their Father’s signet ring under the eyes of all the folk they could gather from Highever and the surrounding teyrnir.  Fergus’ right to the title was blessed by Alistair, standing under the portrait of Maric and the tapestry of Sarim Cousland that one of the servants had saved and hidden in the midden when Howe’s men had rampaged through the Keep, destroying and looting the family treasures. 

The portrait was a good likeness.  No one dared to challenge Alistair’s right to the name, at least.

And now they rode back, Melisande on the horse Fergus had ridden on the trip north and Finbar trotting at her feet. 

Zevran took the opportunity to fill her in on a few of the stories she had missed.  But Melisande rebuffed Alistair’s first few attempts to talk, except to exchange thanks or greetings and goodnights.  Her reluctance fed his and Alistair fell silent as well.

 _Better_ , Melisande decided.  _It needs to be this way_.  Even Zevran finally gave up in the face of their stubborn quiet

It was a long, nearly silent journey and they were all glad to see the jagged, broken walls of the city rise before them.

**_\---000---_ **

In the end, everyone agreed that it was better that the celebration had been delayed.  There needed to be time to regroup.  Time to burn the bodies and clear the worst of the damage. 

Time to grieve. 

The city watched as the new king, himself, set the cornerstone to begin the rebuilding of the Chantry.  And then he led the parade through the districts all the way down to the Alienage.  Shianni met him there, at the gates.  And then he set the first stone to begin rebuilding the elvhen district, too. 

When Shianni stood at the charred roots of the valendral and asked him with a glare if this coddling would continue, Alistair answered with a ringing tone in his voice, recognizable to any one who’d seen him fight.  “You are as much a part of this city as any.  And we will do better by you, I swear it.”

 

“I’ll hold you to it.”  The elf said with an impudent air of defiance that had made certain portions of the crowd gasp.  But he saw a smirk on Meli’s face and when Shianni had added, “Your Majesty” somewhat belatedly he couldn’t help the grin that had spread on his own. 

 

It heartened Alistair a little when Melisande marched with them, uncomfortable though such things made her.  She smiled and caught flowers, tossed coins and the marzipan treats that the palace kitchen had done up in piles and was generally charming.  The shorter hair made her look more mischievous than her elegant braids had, Alistair thought.  A glimpse of the rogue inside the lady.  She looked better.

The worst of the dreams had died with the Archdemon, Alistair was fairly sure.  But Terrance told him that the guards were getting used to finding Melisande strolling along the walls between the watchtowers at night. 

And she had managed to keep a certain distance between them, as well.  It was easy enough, as there were endless people vying for their attention.  So much had been ignored during the civil war.  The most shocking thing was the figures Alistair received about how many Fereldans had fled the Blight to other lands.  Mostly the Free Marches.  He’d have to get a handle on that, almost first of all.  It would be hard enough to rebuild Ferelden without whole sections of the country depopulated. 

And too, there was the matter of dealing with the nobles who had sided with Loghain and Howe in the Civil War. 

Eamon was counseling harshness, but Teagan shook his head at that.  “You weren’t there, brother.  Very few sided with Loghain out of spite.  It was all more a sense that it was better to show a united front.  If I hadn’t known about you and about the…situation with the Empress, I’d have been tempted to join him as well.”

“Betrayal is still betrayal.” Eamon humphed.  Alistair contemplated the two brothers, considering matters between them.  Bann Teagan had never had enough to do with the tiny holding of Rainesfere.  And it was past time for Eamon to return to Redcliffe, again.

While Alistair was forced to take up politics, Melisande took charge of handling the darkspawn carcasses and then, with the Warden documents as a reference, disposal of the Archdemon.  Alistair had had it preserved in ice by the mages of the Circle that had survived and so they were able to harvest the bone and even the blood that Grey Warden rituals required.    It took another week to get the city cleared of the blighted things.  They carted them as far from Denerim as they dared before setting them alight. 

He saw her come in from the last of the burnings, wrapped in the grey cloak she never seemed to be without these days.  In the half light, her figure slipped in and out of shadow.  But she paused suddenly at the edge of the palace garden and instead of continuing on up to the courtyard went to sit on a bench under an oak that had escaped the worst of the burnings. 

Alistair walked as fast as he could.  A running king just alarmed everyone, he’d discovered.  But she was gone before he made it to the garden bench.  And just as well, he supposed with a sigh.  What would he say to her, that they hadn’t already said?  It would only be a matter of time to see if they could get past her actions and his reactions.

Melisande wasn’t consciously avoiding Alistair.  Well, not after the first week of their return, before Anora’s cremation ceremony.  No one even brought up Anora after those first days.  They’d delivered her ashes to the Bann of Gwaren to take and spread in the places she knew as a child.  It seemed everyone, from the nobles to the least grubby child wanted to just set the former Queen aside as a remnant memory from a dark time.  It made Melisande sad and tired and she spent the evening in the Chantry tents, listening to the cantor make her plea to the Maker for his grace.

She watched Alistair carefully.  He was becoming more and more comfortable with his position.  As a soldier and her second he’d almost never volunteered information or analysis.  She’d occasionally had to drag it from him in early days, but now he was taking the lead in discussions and showing an aptitude for it.   A lot of these discussions could be broken down into basic plans of attack, and Alistair had always had a knack for such things. 

It wouldn’t be long now.  There were reports coming in about roving bands of darkspawn, too far south for just a day’s journey to fight.  She needed to make a campaign of it.  Lingering would not make any of her decisions easier.

Alistair might not even know she’d left until she was away, she thought but dismissed it with an inwarcd scoff.  No, he would know.  No slinking off into the night like a wounded hound this time, she had promised not to simply leave again, deciding to wait until after the Coronation.

 And, too, she was worried about him even as she watched him grow into his new duties. 

He was so…alone.  Even as she spent her days with Zevran and Leliana, the troop she’d been given to help her in her clean up, Melisande saw that Alistair had no one, despite the small horde of servants, scribes and bothersome nobles buzzing around the new court like angry bees.  Teagan tried, she thought.   He was careful to keep Alistair talking.   But she could see the signs, see Alistair withdrawing the way he had after Ostagar. 

But to talk to him, to volunteer to be his friend, again?  No, too soon.  He needed to find his way without her.  She couldn’t stay and watch him choose a wife.  He must make his life and so must she. 

Still, Melisande kept her eye on him, quietly, from the corners and the shadows and it was due to that habit that she was watching when he’d left the palace one morning, cloaked and reasonably sneakily, to wander down to the merchants’ quarter.

There was a dark brown cloak wrapped around Alistair’s broad shoulders and he’d taken the precaution of a hood.  He looked non-descript and average, if a bit tall to passers-by and more importantly the guard.  Even that young guard who was nursing a small crush on the king, Melisande noted sourly.  She had counted on that lad to keep an eye on Alistair for her, when she was gone.

She followed him, discreetly, as Alistair walked down to the market.  Puzzled, as  she watched him draw up to square his shoulders and then she realized that amid the debris was the remnant of Goldanna’s hovel. _Oh_.  Her heart gave a small lurch.  He’d come to see if he could find any trace of Goldanna or her family.

Alistair poked among the ruins for half a mark before he gave up.  Dusting himself off, he slouched to the door.  He had to get back.  To be honest, he was a little surprised no one had raised an alarum yet.  Maybe they’d just decided they were better off without him.

A prickling of warning across the back of his neck had him readying his sword.  He couldn’t imagine any of the darkspawn had lasted this long, but…

No.  It was Melisande who was waiting for him when he emerged from the ruin hollowed out by fire, emerging from the shadows that her leathers blended her into like she was part of them. He stared at her.  It had been two weeks since they’d spoken privately, beyond a simple greeting in passing or a report about the day’s events.

Melisande’s eyes were gentle as doves and her voice was low and sympathetic when she asked finally, pushing back her hood.  “No sign of them?”

“Not so much as a note, no.”  He tried to smile, but it slipped away from him again. _Oh, Maker._   He wanted to pull her to him, put his head on her shoulder and he had to fight to push the feeling away.

“I’m sorry.”  She had her own opinion of the woman Alistair believed was his sister, but there had been children and Melisande feared for them.  “Have you checked with the healers outside of the city?” 

“No.  I’ve asked for reports but…I imagine they’re busy enough.”

They had set up a small camp away from Denerim to deal with those victims who were feared to suffer from taint.  They had offered the Joining to a few, once they’d found the recipe for the blood mixture in the storage crates Alistair had found earlier.  Only one of the ‘recruits’ had survived, though she had no training as a soldier, being a baker’s apprentice.  Melisande set Janny up with a section of the guard for some preliminary training and had her running errands between the camp and the city.

After the last death, no others had taken up the offer.  Choosing a clean death at a blade over choking to death on a tainted cup.  Melisande and Alistair had offered to do that as well, to spare the healers the duty of a merciful kill.

Alistair gazed at the tents, now, just outside the city gates, the red cloth roofs that marked the temporary Chantry, but he made no move towards them.  “There are a group of children that the Chantry’s looking after.  I’m hoping at least one or two made it there.  I just…don’t know what their names are or …”

Tipping her head in the Chantry’s direction, she offered, “Come on, I’ll go with you.”

He sighed with relief.  “Thanks.” 

 Melisande fell in beside him, silently.  She didn’t attempt to make conversation as they walked and Alistair found himself at a loss.  None the less, he felt more like himself than he had in weeks, with her blazing head at his shoulder.

There was a small horde of new orphans and the younger Mothers looked a little harried.  One towheaded lad of about six claimed his mother’s name had been Goldanna, but he didn’t know where any of the others were.  “Mam told me to run.  So I did.”

“Best thing you could have done.  Smart lad to listen to your mother.”  Alistair assured him.  “What’s your name?”

“Henry.”  After a small hesitation the boy asked.  “Are you really a king?”

“So they keep telling me.”  Melisande couldn’t help a small smile at the lingering baffled tone.

Alistair made sure the boy was happy enough where he was.  There weren’t any other children at the palace and it would be a grim place for Henry on his own.  The Revered Mother assured him that there was enough food to go around and that they were as well supplied as could be expected and promised him that she would send word if any others came.  After patting Henry’s head and passing out a bag of sweets to the children, Melisande accompanied Alistair back to the palace, still in silence but with a better sense of camaraderie, of their old friendship than they’d found themselves in before. 


	13. Chapter 13

At the coronation feast, Melisande was seated at his right hand, elegant in a russet gown that rustled when she moved.  Alistair made sure of her seating arrangement.  He’d managed not to trip over his own feet or blurt out something horrifically inappropriate during the ceremony and this was his reward.  Even if she wouldn’t talk to him, it was better than Lady Bertilda again and her rabbits. 

But, it turned out, even Melisande was obliged to speak to the person on her right for the first half of the dinner.  Blasted formal manners.  Funny, Loghain hadn’t managed to wipe out that bit of Orlesian foolishness.  Alistair did his best to converse with Bann Alfstana for the time being.  At least when she talked about rabbits, she meant the ones in pastry.  

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Melisande push around the food on her plate for two courses, as she chatted with Bann Teagan.  Finally, he waved over a footman.  “Bring the Warden a bit of that sweet potato puff thing.”

Melisande glanced up in surprise at the appearance of the server at her elbow.  “I’m fine, thank you.”

Alistair was having none of it.  “You haven’t eaten anything, Meli.  Try that.  It’s really good.  It’s got nuts in it.  And…sugar and something.  Plus it’s orange.  Can’t go wrong with orange things.” 

Teagan objected, “Alistair, I mean, Your Majesty, it’s not really appropriate for…”

But he knew better on this one front.  “Sod appropriate, Teagan.  Melisande didn’t stop being a Warden when the Archdemon died.”  He looked back at her.  “You’re going to get sick if you don’t start eating enough, Meli.  Please.”  And though she wasn’t as haggard as she’d been when they found her at Highever, she was still clearly not taking proper care.

She took a bite, with a look of sufferance clear on her face that shaded into a brief bliss that made Alistair have to swallow hard.  “It’s good.”

He covered his discomfort with smugness. “Told you.  Orange things win.”

With a small chuckle, she took another bite.  “Alright.  Yes, you’re right.  Huzzah for the king.”

With his most monarchical demeanor, as arrogant as he could manage with a straight face, he explained.  “That’s my job now.  Um…being right about things, I mean. Not being a pest.” The arrogance bleeding out into sheepishness.

Melisande felt her cheeks flush and she spoke in a low tone.  “You aren’t a pest.  You’re just trying to help.  I did eat earlier, you know, though.   Just in case this was one of those ‘everything is very pretty but nothing is actually edible’ feasts.’

“I’ve banned those, you know.  All food in my domain is now edible, if not pretty.”  Alistair waved his hand over the table as if bestowing a decree, drawing bemused glances from the other diners.

“That is quite the declaration, as last I checked, this was still Ferelden, home of the blandest food in the whole of Thedas.” Oh, she’d missed this.  This teasing and easy conversation.  And she’d miss it more, once she left, now that they’d managed to pick it up again. But he was officially king now.  And he owed it to his kingdom to find a bride.  She’d only be a hindrance.  Jealousy twisted her gut and she glanced down at her plate trying to hide it.  

Alistair felt the moment of amity slip a little, as shadows fell across her face and strewed around for something else to…oh, here.  He passed over one of the soft bread rolls, glazed with honey and saffron.  “Bit more, I think.”

With a shake of her head, Melisande tore off a small bit and he couldn’t help but watch her lush mouth as it brushed her fingers in a bite.  Yes, well.  That wasn’t helping.  He cleared his throat and took a bite of his own supper.  Missing the way her eyes lingered on the stiff embroidered collar of the fine red linen tunic gaped away from his throat as he swallowed.

Beside him, and on her right side, Banns Teagan and Alfstana shared an amused look. 

 

\---000---                                                                                                                                      

 

The letter came for her a few weeks after the final fete had ended and people were trying to get back to their lives. 

Melisande had been away from Denerim more and more.  Occasionally with Zevran and Leliana, but more often with only the troop Alistair had given her, once the bulk of the army was transferred formally back to Fereldan rule.

  She’d become concerned that, contrary to tradition and everything they could find in the Warden records, that the darkspawn weren’t entirely dispersing. 

More than once, she’d stalked into the courtyard, grim at having discovered a crofter’s farmhold completely destroyed and determined to make a proper campaign, now that Denerim was set as much to right as could be expected.

Alistair had held the letter back, seeing the First Warden’s seal and knowing it would call Melisande away, but only until she had rested and cleaned up from the latest foray.  He was a Warden, too, despite all his declarations to the contrary.  They couldn’t duck the duty forever.

Alistair found Melisande in the castle study, just off the library, staring into the fire with the parchment dangling from her fingers.  She was wearing a dress of all things.  Simple, just a blue woolen kirtle belted with a more decorative swordbelt over one of her long-sleeved tunics and embroidering in copper along the edges and the neck.  Simple and appealing, it suited her more than the formal garments he’d seen her in since their arrival in Denerim.  He cleared his throat, not wanting to startle her.  She looked unarmed, the scabbard on her belt empty, but Melisande was likely still wearing a knife or two, gowned or not. 

“I had them bring it to you.  You’re still the Warden-Commander.”

“Yes, I am.”

“What does Weisshaupt want?” He stepped from the stone doorway into the warmer chamber, light from the high windows streaming down.  The sun caught in the redgold curls of her hair, still short and practical. 

“Oh, mostly another account of events.  Something more thorough than, ‘Killed the Archdemon, hunting down stragglers,’ which is apparently what they got from the senior surviving Warden.”  She gave him one of her sideways smiles.

Melisande watched him approach, feeling a little as though she were being stalked.  His expression was carefully light.  His charming self.  And while she was happy to see it, it made her nervous.  What was he up to, then?

“I was in a hurry.  And the Commander was away.”  He glanced down at the fine rug covering the stone floor, almost afraid to ask.  “Do they want the report in person?”

And with that, his casual self was gone and he was nearly thrumming with nervous energy.  She tried to steer him back to business, simply nodding and replying, “Yes.  But more urgently, they want me here to start rebuilding the Order.  Apparently there’s some worry that without a significant presence of Wardens that there might be a problem with outlying groups of darkspawn.”

That drew him up for a moment.  “That’s what you’ve been saying.”

“Exactly.  I’ve got a whole list of things I’m to do and a better recipe for the Joining Cup from Avernus, that more recruits might survive.”  Melisande set the parchment aside on the small rosewood desk and stretched her arms up over her head in an abrupt movement to wrest the kinks out of her back.  “I should probably get organized for a recruitment drive across the Waking Sea and Amaranthine arlings.  They suffered the least from the Blight.  I think Zevran and Leliana will travel with me for a while.  Sten is leaving soon, though.  I want to stay until he does.”  She spoke briskly, as if by doing so she could keep some semblance of formality between them.

“Will you…will you come back?”  And with that, the veil of distance between them shredded as if he’d stabbed it through.

Caught off guard, she stopped stretching and dropped her arms.  She stared at him, gnawing her lip before, in almost a whisper, Melisande asked him, “Do you want me to?”

Alistair stepped towards her.  No time for hesitance, now.  “You know I do.”  He moved quickly around the desk but she stopped him with her hand raised.

“Even with…?”  Melisande knew better than to think he had simply forgotten.  

Reaching out, not surprised to see his hand shake, he touched her face, finally close enough to touch her again, drawing the back of his fingers along her sharp cheekbone, heart lurching at the way she sucked in a tiny breath.   “Even with everything.  Please, please come back.”  

Oh, she wanted to lean into that touch.  The hard brush of callus against her skin.  Melisande longed to close her eyes at the way his voice had dropped, low and husky.  But she forced herself to meet his gaze.

“I want…I want to come back.  I don’t know that I should.”  Laying her hand on his, she stroked her own calloused fingers along his and felt the warm strength that he held in check so easily.  “You need an heir.  I…will always be…”

“ _No_.  Do you love me?”  Surrounded by him, his warm scent, leather and musk and just a hint of some spicy soap that was being made for him now.  Different from the smells of camp and sweat and smoke that clung to him usually.  Still him, though. Still Alistair.  Melisande pulled away, clearing her thoughts and he breathed in sharply, hurt.

She raised her hand and took his again.  “It’s not that simple and you know it.”

“By damned, it _is_ that simple!”  Alistair managed not to shout but the intensity in his glare and the way he tightened his fingers around hers carried as much weight as if he had and Melisande yanked her hand away, twisting to break his grip and backed away towards the window between the bookcases lining the chamber.

“Is it?  You forgive me?  You pardon me from my murder and for my betrayal?  Because I’m not sure I forgive _you_!” 

“Me?!” 

Her eyes were bright with emotion, the grey clear and sharp in her pale face.  “You _left_ me!  Bloody Void, you swore you trusted me.  You swore we were…and then it was just…”  Melisande swung around, her arms tight around her waist as she stared out the window to the grounds, where grass was finally starting to grow again, bright and freshly green against the burned earth.  “All I wanted to do was keep you safe, the way I couldn’t for anyone else and in front of everyone…you just turned your back.”

Alistair saw her hand drift down to her stomach and in his mind’s eye, he could still see the scar that had snaked across her stomach.  On her left side, where her defense was always weakest.  Where his leaving had left her vulnerable.  He’d ignored it, tried to forget it. 

She’d left him, it was true.  But he’d left her, as well.

“I…I’m sorry.”  He couldn’t help the small rush of anger that flooded back, though and there was a sneer in his voice when he spoke again.  “I didn’t leave you alone!  You had all of your friends.  All of them, even Morrigan.”  And it occurred to Alistair to ask “Where is your witch, anyway?  Zevran said she up and disappeared the night you got to Redcliffe.”

Her mouth twitched a little when she told him.  “Morrigan had some ritual she wanted to do with you.   That involved you and her, a little blood magic and a bed.  And nine months later, a baby that apparently would have held the soul of the Archdemon or something.  I honestly have no idea.”  She flung her hands in the air, in a violent gesture of release.

Alistair gaped at her, horrified.  Thoughts just randomly flying about his skull, knocking each other over. 

The twich shifted to a full smirk.  “Yes, well, I imagine I could have talked you into it.  If not for Loghain.”

Her moment of humor was fleeting.  Another flurry of motion, as if all her anger and hurt was trying to flee her body by force.  Knotting her fist, Melisande slammed it against the bookcase as she shouted at him again.  “Anything.  Any bloody thing!  I’d have done it _all_ to save you and you left me for it!  The two of us.  That’s who was supposed to stand between Ferelden and the Blight and….” She slammed her hand against the heavy oak again, gasping at the flash of pain in her knuckles, even as anguish bled out of her heart.

“Meli, don’t.”  Alistair slid between her and the bookcase and grabbed her hand as she swung it again, aimed for his chest.  “Don’t, please.”  The skin had split across her knuckles and he pulled a tin of Wynne’s elfroot salve out of his pocket.  Old habits.  She watched him physick her wound and recalled.  She’d never asked.

“Why did you come back?”

He didn’t have to ask what she meant and he didn’t hesitate to tell her, watching her carefully.

“Because for all that I felt betrayed and alone and hurt, I couldn’t leave you with only him to watch your back.” Even as he smeared the salve across the wound, it healed.  If he’d been the praying sort, Alistair might have wished that all their hurts would fade so easily.

Melisande choked, caught between a laugh and a sob.  “He was a terrible back-up.  Good with that damn sword, all but commanding on the field, but…lousy at covering another fighter.  Like he’d never fought as a pair.”

“I know.”  He whispered and reached out to brush his fingers across her stomach, just where the darkspawn’s broken blade had caught her.

“I missed you.”  Melisande’s voice cracked a little and her hands, healed now, settled on his shoulders.  “I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t let it have you.  And I knew… I knew if it was just you and me, you’d insist on…”

 Alistair snagged his fingers in the lacing up the side of her dress, as if he could keep her by those fragile ribbons.  “Me too, Meli.  I’m sorry, too.   Please…Maker, tell me you’re coming back.  Don’t leave me to this, all this…formality and meetings and people who want things from me but don’t want me.”

Ducking her head, she offered.  “You… could leave.  You could be just a…”

But Alistair was shaking his head.  “No.  No.  Not now.  They need me.  I can be a good king, but I need you.   Please…”  His hand slid from her stomach to her waist, pulling her closer and nearly sobbing when she relaxed into him, her body warm and alive against him, the wool of her dress rough and warm with her body heat under his fingers.  She smelled of cloves again and the new dye in the cloth. 

Taking a chance, holding his breath as if he was plunging into a lake from off a cliff, Alistair pressed his lips to her temple as she whispered.  “You’ll be a great king.  You can be.”

“Then that’s what I want.  If you love me, what else will matter?”

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will away the tears that were gathering.  “That’s not what Arl Eamon will say.  That’s not what the banns…”

 “I don’t  _care._   Damn it, I  _don’t_.  I’ve cared all my life what everyone else wanted.  I can’t have children.  It doesn’t matter who I marry.  And I want you.”  He took a breath.  “Unless you don’t want…do you still want to leave, Meli?  I know…it’ll be a chore, being a queen and a commander.  Maybe you’d rather just be a Warden and leave…this.  Me.”

She wanted to.  Oh, she wanted to just be his and damn all the rest of it.  This changed nothing.  She was still a Warden.  They still bore the taint in their veins. There would be political ramifications, they would have to dodge and counter every challenge until they could designate an heir and ensure Ferelden’s continued peace.  But if they were together, then maybe they could manage.  They could balance just as they always had on the battlefield; his sure, steady advance and all her knack for weakpoints and views from the shadows.  _Oh, Maker.  Can I really just…?_

 “A Cousland does her duty.” 

Panic shot through Alistair, and he forced himself to let her go and backed away.  “Is that all you have to… _mmmph_ …”

Abruptly, Melisande was in his arms and her lips stopped his question, the sudden forward movement staggering him for a moment, until he set his stance and caught her lithe body against him.  It was a desperate kiss, hard and demanding, her lips hot and chapped on his and he could nearly taste the hurt and sorrow on her tongue as it slid against his, as they tangled.  He groaned into her mouth and it only seemed to drive her to lock herself tighter against him.

Melisande dug her fingers into the embroidered fabric of Alistair’s tunic, clutching him close, aching to feel the solid strength of him, the broad plane of chest.  His powerful shoulders bunched in shock and then his arms closed around her and she was warm and safe and his, only his.

His hands found their way into the richness of her hair, still short and unfamiliar, before he let one slide down her back, smoothing away the tension that laced her frame.  He kissed her back, open-mouthed, tasting the sweet taste of the mint she liked to chew after a meal.  Alistair leaned into her, trying to steal away loneliness and anger away with every nip.

Gasping, shaking, they parted but only a whisper between them.  And he had to stand for a minute, his forehead pressed to hers, panting before he could ask.  “Meli…I’m not the fastest of wits, my love.  Is that yes or goodbye?”

“It’s an ‘I’m yours and Maker _help_ you and damn whatever else tries to come between us, sweetheart’.”  She smacked him across the chest, for good measure.  “And stop saying things like that.  You don’t lack for wit.”

Alistair caught her hand against his chest; the rough, slim fingers shook in his, betraying her nervousness.  His was gone, though.  Hers, he was hers and the taint would take him before he’d let her go again. “There are those who would disagree with you.” 

Searching his face, she could see it.  Still that old hint of hurt, lingering in his eyes. Melisande brushed the fingers of her free hand across his brow, smoothing the lines that care had etched on his forehead.   He was so young for this.  But she would be with him, beside him.  “Not to my face.” 

Her vehemence warmed the colder parts of his heart and Alistair couldn’t help but smile fondly as he slid his fingers back into the soft curls of her cropped hair.  “Fierce, dangerous woman.”

“Oh, yes.”  She kissed him again, softly this time, craving the shiver of delight that his gentle searching sent down her spine.  “I do love you.  I never stopped,” she whispered it like a secret into his ear.

Alistair closed his eyes with the brush of her lips at his throat just below his ear, wrapping her close to him in his arms until he could feel her heart pounding against his own chest.  He’d been afraid, so heart-stoppingly terrified, that this closeness would be naught but a memory.

But he managed a joke, trying to relax his grip.  “Well, of course you do.  I’m a lovable sort, so you tell me.” 

It bubbled up, laughter like a fount from the cracked, bleak stone lodged in her chest.  “Well, one of us should be, I suppose,” Melisande gasped, finally finding her voice as he watched her, amusement in the glint of his eyes and the cant of his smile.  The first real smile she’d seen on his face since…oh, too long.  Her other duty, then.  To keep that light shining in his eyes. 

He caught her chin.  “None of that from you, either.  I love you, Meli.  Dare to tell your king he shouldn’t?”

Solemnly, even though her quick hands had snuck under his tunic to trace up the warm skin of his back, utterly unable to keep from touching him she answered.  “No.  My king knows his own mind.” 

“So I do.  C’mon, then.  Let’s…”  Alistair trailed off in a groan as her clever fingers slid up his spine.  “No, never mind.  They can wait.”  He bent to kiss her again, to lose himself in the warmth of her mouth as she opened to him, standing on her toes.

A knock on the door had them springing apart, Melisande straightening her dress as Alistair stepped behind the desk, hoping he wasn’t as flushed as he felt even as he wanted to follow the rosiness creeping across Meli’s neckline..  “Come in.”  _Oh, hey.  Voice was even nice and steady.  Might pull off this king business someday._

“An urgent message from Amaranthine, sire.  The messenger is waiting in the Hall.” 

“Of course.  Be there in a minute.”

The young servant bowed.  “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty.  For the Warden-Commander, as well.”

Alistair swallowed as Melisande prowled across the floor, to stand at his shoulder.  “Well, then, we should find out what the messenger is after.”  _And quickly, please_.  He offered her his arm.

Melisande couldn’t help a secret smile as she took his offer, gripping his sleeve lightly and they strode out of the room, together, to find out what the message might entail.

 


End file.
